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UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA 


DEP 


No.    10  7 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

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http://www.archive.org/details/cyrsfifthreaderOOcyrerich 


CYR'S    READERS 

By  ELLEN   M.  CYR 


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CYR'S 


Fifth  Reader 


BY 

ELLEN   M.  CYR 

AUTHOR    OF    CYR'S    READERS 


GINN   &   COMPANY 

BOSTON   ■  NEW  YORK  •  CHICAGO  •  LONDON 


Copyright,  1890 
By  GINN  &  COMPANY 


ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 

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»  « 


GINN    &    COMPANY.  PRO- 
PRIETORS •  BOSTON  •  U.S.A. 


TO 
MY    DEAR    LITTLE    DAUGHTERS 

Bleanore  anb  jBDttb 


54N28 


PEEFACE. 


>KK< 


The  importance  of  learning  to  love  what  is  best  to  read  is 
hardly  second  to  the  art  of  reading.  During  childhood  the 
imagination  is  most  active,  and  this  is  the  period  when  the 
mind  should  become  familiar  with  the  choicest  gems  of  thought 
and  expression. 

The  seeds  sown  in  early  life  must  bear  fruit  in  later  years. 
Long  before  the  child  can  define  an  author's  meaning  the  spirit 
of  the  thought  has  reached  his  heart. 

It  is  with  this  firm  conviction,  based  upon  schoolroom  experi- 
ence, that  the  author  of  this  series  has  gradually  led  her  readers 
up  the  steeps  of  literature. 

We  have  now  reached  the  lofty  heights  and  must  search 
among  the  grand  peaks  and  crags  of  the  works  of  the  world's 
greatest  writers  for  what  will  appeal  to  children  and  lead  them 
to  love  the  grandeur  which  they  cannot  yet  fully  comprehend. 

The  majority  of  pupils  in  our  public  schools  cannot  take 
advantage  of  our  high  school  privileges ;  but  with  libraries  at 
their  disposal,  and  an  introduction  to  the  world's  best  literature, 
they  may  continue  their  education  after  their  school  life  is 
ended. 

It  has  been  the  author's  aim  to  collect  the  best  material 
from  the  best  authors.     There  are  certain  selections  which  can 


never  grow  old,  and  a  reading  book  of  this  grade  would  be 
incomplete  without  them. 

I  would  extend  my  ftianks  to  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  for 
permission  to  use  selections  from  the  works  of  Thoreau  and 
Ralph  Waldo  Emerson;  to  Harper  &  Bros.,  for  extract  from 
"  Prue  and  I,"  by  George  William  Curtis ;  to  The  Cassell  Pub- 
lishing Company,  for  poem  by  John  Boyle  O'Reilly;  to  R.  F. 
Fenno  &  Co.,  for  extract  from  "  With  Dewey  at  Manila  "  ;  to 
Little,  Brown  &  Co.,  for  extract  from  u  The  Man  without  a 
Country";  to  Mr.  William  H.  Hayne,  for  poem  by  Paul 
Hamilton  Hayne;  and  to  the  following  authors:  Mrs.  Julia 
Ward  Howe,  Mr.  Thomas  J.  Vivian,  and  Dr.  Edward  Everett 
Hale. 

The  selection  by  James  Lane  Allen  is  published  by  business 
arrangement  with  Harper  &  Bros. 

Acknowledgments  are  due  to  Messrs.  Elliot  and  Frye,  Lon- 
don, for  use  of  copyright  photographs  of  Ruskin  and  Carlyle, 
and  to  Messrs.  Walker  and  Boutall,  London,  for  permission  to 
reproduce  portraits  of  Mrs.  Browning  and  Robert  Burns. 

I  take  pleasure  in  acknowledging  my  indebtedness  to  Mr. 
Austin  H.  Kenerson,  for  his  hearty  cooperation  and  valu- 
able suggestions  in  the  preparation  of  this  book,  as  well  as  in 
the  lower  books  of  the  series. 

ELLEN  M.  CYR. 


CONTENTS 

»o^o* 

PAGE 

Arbaces  and  the  Lion.     Edward  Bulwer  Lytton  ....  1 

Spring  in  Kentucky.     James  Lane  Allen 7 

William  Wordsworth 11 

To  the  Small  Celandine.      William  Wordsworth       ...  18 

Daffodils.      William  Wordsworth 20 

Walden  Pond.     Henry  David  Thoreau 21 

The  Puppet  Show.     Johann  Wolfgang  von  Goethe      ...  26 

The  Descent  into  the  Maelstrom.     Edgar  Allan  Foe      .  32 

The  Albatross.     Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 41 

Picciola.     X.  B.  Saintine 48 

The  Battle  at  Manila.     Part  I.     Thomas  J.  Vivian  .     .  57 

Battle  Hymn  of  the  Kepublic.     Julia  Ward  Howe      .     .  64 

The  Battle  at  Manila.     Part  II.     Thomas  J.  Vivian      .  .  66 

The  Moonlight  March.     Reginald  Heber 75 

A  Perilous  Adventure.      Victor  Hugo 76 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 88 

Each  and  All.     Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 92 

Eyes.     Ralph  Waldo  Emerson .94 

The  Perception  of  Beauty.      William  E.  Channing      .     .  97~ 

Lost  on  the  Mountain.     Bernardin  de  St.  Pierre      ...  98 

Oliver  Goldsmith 108 

Moses  at  the  Fair.      Oliver  Goldsmith 115 

xi 


-»6  xii  9*~ 

PAGE 

The  Village  Preacher.     Oliver  Goldsmith 120 

Castles  in  Spain.     George  William  Curtis         123 

— Three  Heroines.     Agnes  Repplier 130 

Ensign  Epps,  the  Color-Bearer.     John  Boyle  O'Reilly      .  134 

The  Battle  of  Landen.     Thomas  Babington  Macaulay      .  136 

The  Planting  of  the  Apple  Tree.     William  Cullen  Bryant  143 

A  Highland  Snowstorm.     John  Wilson 146 

Learning  by  Heart.      Vernon  Lushington 152 

—  A  Court  Lady.     Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 156 

The  Stag  of  Clanruadh.     George  MacDonald      ....  161 

Pine  Trees.     John  Buskin 168 

Aspect  of  the  Pines.     Paul  Hamilton  Hayne 172 

Work.     John  Buskin 173 

The  March  of  the  Marseillais 175 

The  Lady  of  Shalott.     Alfred  Tennyson 180 

John  Lothrop  Motley .     .  187 

The  Abdication  of  Charles  V.     John  Lothrop  Motley  .     .  192 

Mazeppa's  Ride.     Lord  Byron 199 

The  Genius  of  a  Great  Architect.     Phillips  Brooks  .     .  205 

Honest  Work 209 

Song  of  the  Forge 210 

Robert  Burns 213 

Pleasures.     Robert  Burns 218 

Flow  Gently,  Sweet  Afton.     Robert  Burns 219 

Bonnie  Doon.     Robert  Burns 220 

History  of  Our  Flag 222 

The  American  Flag.     Joseph  Rodman  Drake 227 

- —  Dream  Children.     Charles  Lamb 229 

The  Shandon  Bells.     Father  Prout 235 


->8  xiii  8«- 

PAGE 

Don  Quixote  and  the  Lions.     Miguel  de  Cervantes  .     .     .  237 

The  Signing  of  the  Declaration.     George  Lippard     .     .  244-^ 

King's  Mountain.      William  Gilmore  Simms 247 

Trailing  Arbutus.     Henry  Ward  Beecher 251 

The  Christian  Knight  and  the  Saracen  Cavalier.     Sir 

Walter  Scott 255 

A  Mysterious  Visitor.     Thomas  Carlyle 262 

A  Scene  from  William  Tell.     Sheridan  Knowles    .     .     .  268 
Address  to  the   Survivors  of  the   Battle  of  Bunker 

Hill.     Daniel  Webster 277  •• 

The  American  Union.     Daniel  Webster 281 

Recessional.     Rudyard  Kipling 283 

William  Hickling  Prescott 286 

Storming  the  Fortress.      William  Hickling  Prescott      .     .  291 

A  Country  Sunday.     Joseph  Addison 298^ 

The  King  of  Glory 303 

The  Man  without  a  Country.     Edward  Everett  Hale  .     .  304 

Love  of  Country.     Sir  Walter  Scott 315 

The  Heroine  of  Nancy 315- 

Humanity.      William  Cowper 322"" 

The  Iceberg.     Richard  Henry  Dana,  Jr 323 

John  Milton 326 

Death  of  Samson.     John  Milton 331 

Song  on  a  May  Morning.     John  Milton 333 

On  His  Blindness.     John  Milton 334 

A  Cheerful  Spirit.     Sir  John  Lubbock 335  - 

The  Relief  of  Lucknow 336 

The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead.     Theodore  G'Hara      ....  339 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard.    Thomas  Gray  342 


-»8  xiv  B<*- 

PAGE 

Belshazzar's  Feast 349 

The  Battle  of  Quebec.     Francis  Parkman 354 

The  Starling.     Laurence  Sterne 360 

The  Belfry  Pigeon.     N.  P.  Willis 365 

Lady  Una  and  the  Lion.     Edmund  Spenser 367 

Purity  of  Character 372 

Delights  of  Reading.     Sir  John  Lubbock 373 

Break,  Break,  Break.     Alfred  Tennyson  . 376 

William  Shakespeare 377 

The  Three  Caskets.     William  Shakespeare 383 

Quotations  from  Shakespeare 392 

Shakespeare's  Poetry.     Francis  Jeffrey 393 

Home.     Henry  W.  Grady .     .  395 

A  Palace  in  a  Valley.     Dr.  Samuel  Johnson 399 

True  Heroism .  406 

The  Pen.     Edward  Bulwer  Lytton 407 

Character  of  Washington.     George  Bancroft 408 

National  Hymn.     S.  F.  Smith 415 


CYR'S   FIFTH   READER 


CYR'S    FIFTH    READER 

ARBACES    AND    THE    LION. 

EDWARD  BULWER  LYTTON. 

The  following  selection  is  taken  from  "The  Last  Days  of 
Pompeii/'  a  famous  novel  written  by  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton, 
the  author  of  a  large  number  of  works  of  fiction. 

Arbaces,    an    Egyptian,   murdered   Apsecides,   a   priest,   and 
accused  Glaucus,  a  young  Greek,  of  having  committed  the  crime.    5 
Calenus  witnessed  the  deed,  and  Arbaces,  after  promising  him  a 
large  sum  for  his  silence,  imprisoned  him  in  a  dungeon,  leaving 
him  there  to  die. 

Glaucus  was  condemned,  and,  according  to  the  ancient  cus- 
tom, was  to  be  devoured  by  the  lions ;  but  Calenus  escaped  and  10 
accused  Arbaces  of  the  crime. 

The  terrible  eruption  of  Mt.  Vesuvius  burst  forth  just  as  the 
crowd  rushed  upon  Arbaces,  and  the  city  of  Pompeii  was  buried 
beneath  its  fury.  Glaucus  and  some  of  his  friends  escaped,  but 
Arbaces  perished.  15 

The  keeper,  who  was  behind  the  den,  cautiously  re- 
moved the  grating ;  the  lion  leaped  forth  with  a  mighty 
and  a  glad  roar  of  release.  Glaucus  had  bent  his  limbs 
so  as  to  give  himself  the  firmest  posture  at  the  expected 
rush  of  the  lion,  with  his  small  and  shining  weapon  20 


-<  2  8»- 

raised  on  high,  in  the  faint  hope  that  one  well-directed 
thrust  might  penetrate  through  the  eye  to  the  brain 
of  his  grim  foe.  But,  to  the  unutterable  astonishment 
of  all,  the  beast  halted  abruptly  in  the  arena;   then 

5  suddenly  it  sprang  forward,  but  not  on  the  Athe- 
nian. At  half  speed  it  circled  round  and  round  the 
space,  turning  its  vast  head  from  side  to  side  with  an 
anxious  and  perturbed  gaze,  as  if  seeking  only  some 
avenue   of   escape.     Once  or  twice  it  endeavored  to 

10  leap  up  the  parapet  that  divided  it  from  the  audi- 
ence, and,  on  failing,  uttered  rather  a  baffled  howl 
than  its  deep-toned  and  kingly  roar.  The  first  sur- 
prise of  the  assembly  at  the  apathy  of  the  lion  was 
soon  converted  into  resentment  at  its  cowardice  ;  and 

15  the  populace  already  merged  their  pity  for  the  fate 
of  Glaucus  into  angry  compassion  for  their  own  dis- 
appointment. 

Then   there   was  a  confusion,  a  bustle  —  voices  of 
remonstrance  suddenly  breaking  forth,  and  suddenly 

20  silenced  at  the  reply.  All  eyes  turned,  in  wonder  at 
the  interruption,  towards  the  quarter  of  the  disturbance. 
The  crowd  gave  way,  and  suddenly  Sallust  appeared 
on  the  senatorial  benches,  his  hair  disheveled  —  breath- 
less —  heated  —  half  exhausted.    He  cast  his  eyes  hastily 

25  around  the  ring.  "  Remove  the  Athenian  ! "  he  cried  ; 
"  haste — he  is  innocent !  Arrest  Arbaces,  the  Egyptian  ; 
he  is  the  murderer  of  Apaecides ! " 

"Art  thou  mad,  0  Sallust?"  said  the  praetor,  rising 
from  his  seat.     "  What  means  this  raving  ?  " 


10 


"  Remove  the  Athenian  !  Quick  !  or  his  blood  be  on 
your  head.  Praetor,  delay  and  you  answer  with  your 
own  life  to  the  emperor !  I  bring  with  me  the  eye- 
witness to  the  death  of  the  priest  Apaecides.  Room 
there  !  stand  back !  give  way !  People  of  Pompeii,  fix 
every  eye  upon  Arbaces — there  he  sits !  Room  there  for 
the  priest  Calenus !  "  "  The  priest  Calenus !  Calenus !  " 
cried  the  mob.  "Is  it  he?  No  —  it  is  a  dead  man." 
"It  is  the  priest  Calenus,"  said  the  praetor.  "What 
hast  thou  to  say  ?  "  "  Arbaces  of  Egypt  is  the  mur- 
derer of  Apaecides,  the  priest  of  Isis ;  these  eyes  saw 
him  deal  the  blow.  Release  the  Athenian ;  he  is  inno- 
cent!" 

"It  is  for  this,  then,  that  the  lion  spared  him.  A 
miracle  !  a  miracle  !  "  cried  Pansa.  15 

"  A  miracle !  a  miracle ! "  shouted  the  people. 
"  Remove  the  Athenian  !     Arbaces  to  the  lion  !  " 

And  that  shout  echoed  from  hill  to  vale,  from  coast 
to  sea :  "Arbaces  to  the  lion  !  " 

"  Hear  me,"  answered  Arbaces,  rising  calmly,  but  20 
with  agitation  visible  in  his  face.  "  This  man  came 
to  threaten  that  he  would  make  against  me  the  charge 
he  has  now  made,  unless  I  would  purchase  his  silence 
with  half  my  fortune.  Were  I  guilty,  why  was  the 
witness  of  this  priest  silent  at  the  trial  ?  Then  I  had  25 
not  detained  or  concealed  him.  Why  did  he  not  pro- 
claim my  guilt  when  I  proclaimed  that  of  Glaucus  ?  " 

"  What !  "  cried  Calenus,  turning  around  to  the  peo- 
ple, "  shall  Isis  be  thus  contemned  ?     Shall  the  blood 


of  Apaecides  yet  cry  for  vengeance  ?  Shall  the  lion  be 
cheated  of  his  lawful  prey  ?  A  god  !  a  god  !  I  feel  the 
god  rush  to  my  lips  !  To  the  lion  —  to  the  lion  with 
Arbaces ! "     Sinking  on  the  ground  in  strong  convul- 

5  sions  —  the  foam  gathered  to  his  mouth  —  he  was  as  a 
man,  indeed,  whom  a  supernatural  power  had  entered ! 
The  people  saw  and  shuddered.     "  It  is  a  god  that  in- 
spires the  holy  man  !    To  the  lion  with  the  Egyptian  !  " 
With  that  cry  up  sprang  —  on  moved  —  thousands 

10  upon  thousands !  They  rushed  from  the  heights  — 
they  poured  down  in  the  direction  of  the  Egyptian. 
The  power  of  the  praetor  was  as  a  reed  beneath  the 
whirlwind.  The  guards  made  but  a  feeble  barrier  — 
the  waves  of  the  human  sea  halted  for  a  moment,  to 

15  enable  Arbaces  to  count  the  exact  moment  of  his 
doom !  In  despair,  and  in  a  terror  which  beat  down 
even  pride,  he  glanced  his  eyes  over  the  rolling  and 
rushing  crowd  —  when,  right  above  them,  he  beheld  a 
strange  and  awful  apparition  —  he  beheld  —  and  his 

20  craft  restored  his  courage ! 

"  Behold  !"he  shouted  with  a  voice  of  thunder,  which 
stilled  the  roar  of  the  crowd;  "behold  how  the  gods 
protect  the  guiltless !  The  fires  of  the  avenging  Orcus 
burst   forth   against   the  false   witness   of   my  accus- 

26  ers  ! "  The  eyes  of  the  crowd  followed  the  gesture 
of  the  Egyptian  and  beheld  with  ineffable  dismay 
a  vast  vapor  shooting  from  the  summit  of  Vesuvius 
in  the  form  of  a  gigantic  pine  tree  —  the  trunk,  black- 
ness ;  the  branches,  fire. 


^5g^ 


At  that  moment  they  felt  the  earth  shake  beneath 
their  feet ;  the  walls  of  the  theater  trembled ;  and  be- 
yond, in  the  distance,  they  heard  the  crash  of  falling 
roofs.  An  instant  more  and  the  mountain  cloud  seemed 
to   roll  towards  them,  dark  and  rapid,  like  a  torrent,    s 


BEHOLD!"    SHOUTED    ARBACES. 


At  the  same  time  it  cast  forth  from  its  bosom  a  shower 
of  ashes  mixed  with  vast  fragments  of  burning  stone ! 
Over  the  crushing  vines,  over  the  desolate  streets,  over 
the  amphitheater  itself,  far  and  wide,  with  many  a 
mighty  splash  in  the  agitated  sea,  fell  that  awful 
shower!     No    longer    thought   the   crowd    of    justice 


10 


-■6  6  9«~ 

or  of  Arbaces;  safety  for  themselves  was  their  sole 
thought.  Each  turned  to  fly  —  each  dashing,  press- 
ing, crushing  against  the  other.  Trampling  recklessly 
over  the  fallen,  —  amidst  groans  and  oaths  and  prayers 

5  and  sudden  shrieks,  —  the  enormous  crowd  vomited 
itself  forth  through  the  numerous  passages.  Whither 
should  they  fly  for  protection  from  the  terrors  of  the 
open  air  ? 

And  then  darker  and  larger  and  mightier  spread  the 

10  cloud  above  them.     It  was  a  sudden  and  more  ghastly 
night  rushing  upon  the  realm  of  noon ! 

From  "  The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii.''1 


h8  7  9* 


SPRING    IN    KENTUCKY. 


JAMES  LANE  ALLEN. 

James  Lane  Allen  was  born  on  a  farm  near  Lexington,  Ky., 
in   1850.     The  early  years   of  his   life  were    spent   in   careful 
study.     He  became  interested  in 
literature,  and  wrote  sketches  and 
poems  for  several  magazines  and 
papers. 

In  1885  he  went  to  New  York 
City  to  continue  this  work.  He 
wrote  a  number  of  interesting  ar- 
ticles on  the  "Blue  Grass  Begion" 
in  Kentucky.  These  were  pub- 
lished in  "Harper's  Magazine." 
His  first  stories  appeared  shortly 
after  in  "  The  Century." 

Mr.  Allen  knows  and  loves  Ken- 
tucky,   and   it   is    there    that    he 

locates  his  scenes.  He  has  written  a  number  of  delightful  novels 
which  have  been  widely  read.  He  resides  in  New  York  City  and 
is  popular  as  a  writer. 

It  is  the  middle  of  February.  So  bleak  a  season  20 
touches  my  concern  for  birds,  which  never  seem  quite 
at  home  in  this  world ;  and  the  winter  has  been  most 
lean  and  hungry  for  them.  Many  snows  have  fallen — 
snows  that  are  as  raw  cotton  spread  over  their  break- 
fast table,  and  cutting  off  connection  between  them  and  25 
its  bounties. 

Next  summer  I  must  let  the  weeds  grow  up  in  my 
garden,  so  that  they  may  have  a  better  chance  for 
seeds  above  the  stingy  level  of   the   universal  white. 


-•8  8  8*- 

Of  late  I  have  opened  a  pawnbroker's  shop  for  my 
hard-pressed  brethren  in  feathers,  lending  at  a  fearful 
rate  of  interest,  for  every  borrower  will  have  to  pay 
me  back  in  due  time  by  monthly  instalments  of  sing- 

5  ing.     But  were  a  man  never  so  usurious,  would  he  not 

lend  a  winter  seed  for  a  summer  song?     Would  he 

refuse  to  invest  his  stale  crumbs  in  an  orchestra  of 

divine  instruments  and  a  choir  of  heavenly  voices  ? 

And  to-day,  also,  I  ordered  from  a  nurseryman  more 

10  trees  of  holly,  juniper,  and  fir,  since  the  forest  is  naked, 
and  every  shrub  and  hedgerow  is  bare.  What  would 
become  of  our  birds  if  there  were  no  evergreens  — 
Nature's  hostelries  for  the  homeless  ones  ?  Living  in 
the  depths  of  these,  they  can  keep  snow,  ice,  and  wind 

15  at  bay ;  prying  eyes  cannot  watch  them,  nor  enemies 
so  well  draw  near ;  cones,  or  seed,  or  berries  are  their 
store  ;  and  in  those  untrodden  chambers  each  can  have 
the  sacred  company  of  his  mate. 

But  wintering  here  has  terrible  risks  which  few  can 

20  run.  Scarcely  in  autumn  have  the  leaves  begun  to 
drop  from  their  high  perches  silently  downward  when 
the  birds  begin  to  drop  away  from  the  bare  boughs 
silently  southward.  Lo!  some  morning  the  leaves  are 
on  the  ground  and  the  birds  have  vanished. 

26  The  species  that  remain,  or  that  come  to  us  then, 
wear  the  hues  of  the  season  and  melt  into  the  tone 
of  Nature's  background  —  blues,  grays,  browns,  with 
touches  of  white  on  tail  and  breast  and  wing  for  com- 
ing flakes  of  snow. 


March  has  gone  like  its  winds.  The  other  night,  as 
I  lay  awake,  there  fell  from  the  upper  air  the  notes  of 
the  wild-gander  as  he  wedged  his  way  onward  by  faith, 
not  by  sight,  toward  his  distant  bourn.  I  rose  and, 
throwing  open  the  shutters,  strained  eyes  toward  the  5 
unseen  explorer,  startled,  as  a  half-asleep  soldier  might 
be  startled  by  the  faint  bugle-call  of  his  commander 
blown  to  him  from  the  clouds.  What  far-off  lands, 
streaked  with  mortal  dawn,  does  he  believe  in  ? 

March  is  a  month  when  the  needle  of  my  nature  10 
dips  toward  the  country.  I  am  away,  greeting  every- 
thing as  it  wakes  out  of  a  winter  sleep,  stretches  arms 
upward  and  legs  downward,  and  drinks  goblet  after 
goblet  of  young  sunshine.  I  must  find  the  dark-green 
snowdrop,  and  sometimes  help  to  remove  from  her  15 
head,  as  she  lifts  it  slowly  from  her  couch,  the  frosted 
nightcap  which  the  old  nurse  would  insist  that  she 
should  wear. 

The  pale-green  tips  of  daffodils  are  a  thing  of  beauty. 
There  is  the  sunstruck  brook  of  the  field,  underneath  20 
the  thin  ice  of  which  drops  form  and  fall,  form  and 
fall  like  big,  round,  silvery  eyes  that  grow  bigger  and 
brighter  with  astonishment  that  you  should  laugh  at 
them  as  they  vanish. 

But  most  I  love  to  see  Nature  do  her  spring  house-  25 
cleaning  in  Kentucky,   with  the  rain-clouds   for   her 
water-buckets,  and  the  wind  for  her  brooms.     What 
an   amount  of   drenching  and   sweeping   she  can   do 
in  a  day!     How  she  dashes  pailfuls  into  every  dirty 


-•8  lO  8«- 

corner,    till   the   whole   earth   is   as   clean   as   a  new 
floor  ! 

Another  day  she  attacks  the  piles  of  dead  leaves, 
where  they  have  lain  since  last  October,  and  scatters 

5  them  in  a  trice,  so  that  every  cranny  may  be  sunned 
and  aired.     Or,  grasping  her  long  brooms  by  the  han- 
dles, she  will  go  into  the  woods  and  beat  the  icicles  off 
the  big  trees  as  a  housewife  would  brush  down  cobwebs. 
This  done,  she  begins  to  hang  up  soft,  new  curtains 

10  at.  the  forest  windows,  and  to  spread  over  her  floor  a 
new  carpet  of  an  emerald  loveliness  such  as  no  mortal 
looms  could  ever  have  woven. 

And  then,  at  last,  she  sends  out  invitations  through 
the  south  for  the  birds  to  come  and  spend  the  summer 

15  in  Kentucky.  The  invitations  are  sent  out  in  March, 
and  accepted  in  April  and  May,  and  by  June  her  house 
is  full  of  visitors. 

Not  the  eyes  alone  love  Nature  in  March.     Every 
other  sense  hies  abroad.     My  tongue  hunts  for  the  last 

20  morsel  of  snow  on  the  northern  root  of  some  aged  oak. 
As  one  goes  early  to  a  concert-hall  with  a  passion  even 
for  the  preliminary  tuning  of  the  musicians,  so  my  ear 
sits  alone  in  the  vast  amphitheater  of  Nature  and  waits 
for  the  earliest  warble  of  the  bluebird,  which  seems 

25  to  start  up  somewhere  behind  the  heavenly  curtains. 
And  the  scent  of  spring,  is  it  not  the  first  lyric  of  the 
nose  —  that  despised  poet  of  the  senses  ? 

From  "A  Kentucky  Cardinal." 
Copyright,  Harper  and  Brothers. 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 


William  Wordsworth,  one  of  the  Lake  poets,  was 
born  in  England,  on  the  7th  of  April,  1770.  His  father 
was  a  lawyer  who  belonged  to  a  fine  old  English  family. 
His  mother  was  descended  from  a  family  of  rank. 

William  had  three  ^a^fe 

brothers,  and  one  sister, 
Dorothy,  who  was  his 
constant  companion. 

His  mother  died 
when  he  was  but  eight 
years  old,  and  he  re- 
membered but  little 
about  her;  but  he 
once  overheard  her 
tell  one  of  her  friends 
that  William  was  the 
only  one  of  her  chil- 
dren for  whom  she 
was  anxious  —  he  would  be  remarkable  for  good  or  evil. 

Wordsworth  spent  a  very  free  boyhood ;  he  was  strong  20 
and  vigorous,  and  loved  to  be  in  the  open  air.      This 
out-of-door  life  did  much  to  make  him  a  poet.     He 
afterwards  wrote :  — 


"  I  had  a  world  about  me  —  't  was  my  own  ; 
I  made  it,  for  it  only  lived  to  me, 
And  to  the  God  who  sees  into  the  heart." 


25 


-•8  12  8*- 

The  Derwent  river  offered  many  a  sport  to  the  four 

brothers :  — 

"  the  bright  river  passed 
Along  the  margin  of  our  terrace  walk ; 
5  A  tempting  playmate  whom  we  dearly  loved." 

How  the  boy  exulted  in  his  freedom,  finding  delight 
in  every  season !  The  winter  sports  were  filled  with 
happy  hours.  He  was  an  excellent  skater  and  could 
cut  his  name  on  the  ice  even  after  he  became  an  old 

10  man. 

All  four  boys  attended  the  same  school,  and  when 
they  came  home,  their  father  listened  with  interest  to 
the  poems  from  Milton,  Shakespeare,  and  Spenser  which 
they  had  learned. 

15  The  father  died  when  William  was  thirteen  years 
old,  and  the  children  were  left  almost  penniless. 

His  mother's  family  assisted  in  sending  the  future 
poet  to  Cambridge  University. 

The  change  from  his  country  home  to  college  life 

20  was  great,  and  the  lad  was  much  interested  in  the 
scenes  about  him.  He  felt  as  though  some  fairy  wand 
had  touched  him,  for  he  had  a  fine  suit  of  clothes,  his 
hair  was  powdered  according  to  the  fashion  of  the 
times,  he  had  money  in  his  pocket,  and  a  "  lordly  dress- 

25  ing  gown  "  hung  in  his  closet. 

When  he  was  nineteen  years  old  William  spent 
several  weeks  with  his  sister,  and  as  they  wandered 
about  Dovedale  together,  planning  and  dreaming  of 
the  future,  he  decided  to  be  a  poet.     During  this  year 


-♦8  13  8«- 

he  composed  his  first  long  poem,  "  An  Evening  Walk, 
Addressed  to  a  Young  Lady"  [his  sister  Dorothy]. 

In  the  autumn  of  1790  Wordsworth  and  a  friend 
made  a  journey,  mostly  on  foot,  to  Calais,  visiting 
Switzerland.  They  wandered  across  a  mountainous  5 
country,  and  were  greatly  disappointed  when  a  peas- 
ant told  them  that  they  had  crossed  the  Alps  without 
knowing  it.  Many  a  mile  did  the  young  men  travel 
together,    feasting    their    eyes    upon    the    wondrous 

scenery :  —  10 

"  the  ever-living  universe, 
Turn  where  I  might,  was  opening  out  its  glories." 

Wordsworth's  uncle  had  already  urged  him  to  take 
orders  and  become  a  clergyman,  but  he  could  not  give 
up  his  cherished  dream  of  becoming  a  poet.  15 

When  he  was  twenty-one,  he  received  his  degree 
and  left  Cambridge,  spending  some  time  with  Dorothy. 
The  faithful  sister  encouraged  her  brother  to  carry  out 
his  purpose,  and  they  took  long  walks  at  morning  and 
nightfall,  talking  and  planning  together.  The  young  20 
poet  then  went  to  London,  where  he  spent  several 
months  and  then  took  another  tour,  this  time  visit- 
ing Wales.  The  next  winter  was  spent  in  France, 
where  he  became  deeply  interested  in  the  political 
affairs  of  that  nation.  25 

Although  Wordsworth  had  begun  writing  verses 
when  he  was  a  schoolboy,  his  first  book  of  poems, 
containing  "  An  Evening  Walk "  and  "  Descriptive 
Sketches,"   was  not   published  until  he  was  twenty- 


-*6  14  9«- 

three.  These  poems  attracted  very  little  attention, 
and  did  not  have  a  rapid  sale,  but  they  were  appre- 
ciated by  a  few,  who  recognized  the  true  spirit  of  poetry 
in  them. 
5  *  His  relatives  were  disappointed  in  him  and  thought 
him  a  hopeless  and  idle  dreamer.  Dorothy  wrote 
one  of  her  friends :  "  This  favorite  brother  of  mine 
happens  to  be  no  favorite  with  any  of  his  near  rela- 
tives  except   his   brothers,  by  whom   he   is   adored." 

10  His  sister  understood  him  and  encouraged  him  con- 
tinually. She  was  devoted  to  him,  and  they  planned 
to  have  a  home  together  as  soon  as  he  had  sufficient 
means. 

About  this  time  Wordsworth  began  to  write  for  a 

15  London  paper.  In  1795  a  friend  whom  he  had  nursed 
during  his  last  illness  left  him  a  legacy  of  nine  hun- 
dred pounds.  With  this  sum  the  brother  and  sister 
began  house-keeping  in  a  modest  little  cottage.  Here, 
far  from   the   world,  but   surrounded   with   beautiful 

20  scenery,  they  read,  walked,  talked,  and  wrote  verses. 
In  this  quiet  home  the  poet  listened  to  his  own  thoughts 
and  to  the  messages  that  the  tiniest  dewdrop  held  for 
him.  He  wrote :  "  To  me,  the  meanest  flower  that 
blows  can  give  thoughts  that  lie  too  deep  for  tears." 

26  At  this  time  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  Samuel 
T.  Coleridge,  and  the  two  poets  became  lifelong  friends. 
Coleridge  visited  Wordsworth  at  his  home,  and  was 
charmed  with  him  and  his  sister.  In  1797  Words- 
worth moved   to  Alfoxden,  where   Coleridge  and  his 


^6   15  8*- 

wife  were  staying,  so  that  he  might  enjoy  their  society. 
This  close  friendship  brought  him  into  touch  with  other 
literary  men,  and  he  became  acquainted  with  Robert 
South ey  and  Charles  Lamb. 

Meanwhile  his  pen  was  active  and  some  of  his  most  s 
beautiful  poems  were  written.  "It  was,"  says  Words- 
worth, "a  very  pleasant  and  profitable  time  of  my  life." 
The  next  summer,  during  a  tour  with  his  sister  along 
the  river  Wye,  he  wrote  "  Tintern  Abbey,"  an  exquisite 
poem  which  was  published  early  in  September  of  that  io 
year  in  his  volume  of  "Lyrical  Ballads." 

Shortly  afterwards  the  Wordsworths  left  their  home 
at  Alfoxden,  and  spent  the  winter  at  the  foot  of  the 
Hartz  mountains.  It  was  bitterly  cold  and  nothing 
could  have  been  more  dreary  than  this  season  at  15 
Goslar;  but  the  poet's  heart  turned  with  longing  to 
old  scenes,  and  some  of  the  poems  written  among 
these  bleak  and  wintry  surroundings  are  filled  with 
the  breath  of  springtide  and  nature's  most  smiling 
moods.  20 

The  next  December,  the  brother  and  sister  went  to 
live  at  Dove  Cottage,  Grasmere.  They  had  been  travel- 
ing for  four  days,  much  of  the  way  on  foot,  but  such 
was  their  delight  in  nature  that  Wordsworth  wrote 
Coleridge  an  enthusiastic  account  of  their  journey: —  25 

"  The  frosty  wind,  as  if  to  make  amends 
For  its  keen  breath,  was  aiding  to  our  steps, 
And  drove  us  onward  like  two  ships  at  sea 
Or  like  two  birds,  companions  in  mid-air." 


^16  8^ 


Dove  Cottage  is  still  standing  by  the  roadside  close  to 
the  lake,  with  a  garden  where  some  of  the  plants  which 
Wordsworth  set  out  may  still  be  found.  It  was  here 
that  he  wrote  "  To  a  Butterfly,"  "  To  the  Small  Celan- 
dine," and  "  Daffodils." 

On  the  4th  of  October,  1802,  Wordsworth  was  mar- 
ried to  Mary  Hutchinson,  and  for  nearly  fifty  years 

she  made  his  life 
happy  by  her 
loving  devotion. 
His  poems  con- 
tain many  refer- 
ences to  her,  as 
in  "  She  was  a 
Phantom  of 
Delight"  and 
others. 

During  the 
next  ten  years 
Wordsworth 
wrote  his  finest  poems,  among  them  his  wonderful 
ode,  "Intimations  of  Immortality  from  Recollections 
of  Early  Childhood,"  "The  Prelude,"  and  the  greater 
part  of  "The  Excursion."  These  poems  will  always 
25  be  associated  with  the  valley  of  Easedale,  surrounded 
by  mountains.  Along  the  green  pathways  many  lines 
were  murmured  by  the  poet,  and  often  was  he  accom- 
panied by  his  wife  and  sister,  who  were  ready  to  write 
the  verses  as  they  fell  from  the  poet's  lips. 


WORDSWORTH'S    HOME   AT    RYDAL    MOUNT. 


~$  17  9* 

In  1803  Wordsworth  and  his  sister  Dorothy  went  to 
Scotland,  and  there  met  Sir  Walter  Scott.  They  were 
impressed  by  the  love  and  respect  with  which  Scott 
was  everywhere  received.  Two  years  later  Scott  and 
his  wife  returned  this  visit  and  were  delighted  with  5 
their  reception  at  the  humble  cottage  at  Grasmere. 

In    1813   Rydal   Mount    being   vacant,   the   family 
moved  there,  where  they  remained  the  rest  of  Words- 
worth's life.     The  home  at  Rydal  was  a  gray  cottage, 
almost  hidden  by  ivy  and  roses,  with  a  picturesque,  old-  10 
fashioned  garden. 

"The  Excursion"  and  "The  White  Doe  of  Ryl- 
stone  "  appeared  during  the  year  1815. 

When  he  was  from  sixty  to  seventy  years  of  age, 
Wordsworth  reached  the  height  of  his  popularity  and  15 
was  looked  upon  as  the  distinguished  poet  of  the  period. 
He  still  retained  his  simplicity  and  rustic  ways,  and 
enjoyed  a  ramble  with  a  little  child  as  well  as  a  philo- 
sophical talk  with  some  great  man.  He  was  made 
poet  laureate  when  he  was  seventy-three.  20 

His  life  closed  gently  and  quietly  upon  the  23d  of 
April,  1850,  and  he  was  laid  in  the  quiet  church- 
yard at  Grasmere. 


-■8  18  8*- 

TO  THE   SMALL  CELANDINE. 
WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

Pansies,  lilies,  kingcups,  daisies, 
Let  them  live  upon  their  praises ; 
Long  as  there  's  a  sun  that  sets, 
Primroses  will  have  their  glory ; 
Long  as  there  are  violets, 
They  will  have  a  place  in  story : 
There's  a  flower  that  shall  be  mine, 
'T  is  the  little  celandine. 

Eyes  of  some  men  travel  far 
For  the  finding  of  a  star ; 
Up  and  down  the  heavens  they  go, 
Men  that  keep  a  mighty  rout ! 
I  'm  as  great  as  they,  I  trow, 
Since  the  day  I  found  thee  out, 
Little  flower  !  —  I  '11  make  a  stir, 
Like  a  sage  astronomer. 

Ere  a  leaf  is  on  a  bush, 
In  the  time  before  the  thrush 
Has  a  thought  about  her  nest, 
Thou  wilt  come  with  half  a  call, 
Spreading  out  thy  glossy  breast 
Like  a  careless  prodigal ; 
Telling  tales  about  the  sun, 
When  we  've  little  warmth,  or  none. 


•4)  19  8«- 

Comfort  have  thou  of  thy  merit, 
Kindly,  unassuming  spirit ! 
Careless  of  thy  neighborhood, 
Thou  dost  show  thy  pleasant  face 
On  the  moor,  and  in  the  wood, 
In  the  lane  ;  —  there  's  not  a  place. 
Howsoever  mean  it  be, 
But  'tis  good  enough  for  thee. 

Ill  befall  the  yellow  flowers, 
Children  of  the  flaring  hours ! 
Buttercups,  that  will  be  seen, 
Whether  we  will  see  or  no ; 
Others,  too,  of  lofty  mien, 
They  have  done  as  worldlings  do, 
Taken  praise  that  should  be  thine. 
Little,  humble  celandine ! 


-*6  20  e*~ 

DAFFODILS. 

WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH. 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 
When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host,  of  golden  daffodils ; 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 

They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay : 

Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 

Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced ;  but  they 
Out-did  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee : 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay, 
In  such  a  jocund  company : 

I  gazed  —  and  gazed  —  but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude ; 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 

And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 


-»8  21  8«- 

WALDEN   POND. 
HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU. 

Henry  David  Thoreau  was  born  in  Concord,  Mass.,  on  the 
12th  of  July,  1817.  His  father  was  of  French  descent,  and  his 
mother  was  the  daughter  of  a  New  England  clergyman. 

Henry's  life  as  a  country  boy,  driving  the  cow  to  pasture  and 
roaming  about  the  woods,  made  him  familiar  with  Nature  j  new    5 
discoveries  of  her  beauties  and  the  constant  changes  of  the  seasons 
soon  became  his  greatest  delight. 

The  meadows  and  stream  sides  were  stored  with  treasures,  and 
when  only  twelve  years  of  age  he  had  already  made  a  number  of 
collections  for  Professor  Agassiz,  the  great  naturalist.     Kalph  10 
Waldo  Emerson  says  of  him :  — 

"  It  seemed  as  if  the  breezes  brought  him, 
It  seemed  as  if  the  sparrow  taught  him, 
As  if  by  secret  signs  he  knew 
Where  in  far  fields  the  orchis  grew."  15 

Thoreau  attended  Harvard  College,  and  was  graduated  in  1837. 
He  then  joined  his  brother  in  teaching  a  private  school;  but 
soon  turned  aside  from  this  profession  and  decided  to  devote 
himself  to  the  study  of  nature. 

He  was  never  idle,  but  preferred  to  earn  what  money  lie  re-  20 
quired  by  building  a  fence  or  a  boat,  or  by  laboring  on  some  farm, 
rather  than  to  be  confined  to  any  regular  occupation.     He,  how- 
ever, became  a  land  surveyor,  as  this  employment  led  him  con- 
stantly to  new  ground  for  observation. 

A  Eobinson  Crusoe's  life,  with  only  his  own  efforts  and  na-  25 
ture  to  depend  upon,  would  have  suited  this  child  of  nature. 
Still,  although  so  hermit  like,  he  was  really  fond  of  sympathy, 
delighted  to  entertain  his  friends  with  stories  of  field  and  river, 
and  was  always  ready  to  lead  a  party  in  search  for  nuts  or 
berries.  30 


-»6  22  9<- 

In  1845  he  made  an  experiment  to  prove  that  man  could  live 
as  independent  of  his  kind  as  the  birds  and  squirrels.  Upon  a 
pine  slope  on  the  shores  of  Walden  Pond  he  built  and  furnished 
a  small  house.     During  two  years  he  lived  here  studying,  writ- 

5  ing,  and  learning  to  know  the  fishes,  birds,  and  other  woodland 
creatures. 

Birds  came  at  his  call,  and  even  the  fishes  swam  fearlessly 
through  his  hands.  He  would  sit  immovable,  until  the  bird, 
reptile,  or  fish  which  had  been  startled  by  his  presence  would 

10  return,  either  out  of  curiosity  to  observe  him,  or  to  resume 
its  habits. 

While  a  young  man,  he  became  acquainted  with  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson,  who  was  his  lifelong  friend.  Thoreau  so  loved  nature 
that  his  books  are  filled  with  descriptions  of  beautiful  scenery, 

15  ever-changing  wild  flowers,  and  the  habits  of  animals.  He  was 
so  happy  in  solitude  that  it  made  him  heavy-hearted  to  see  houses 
springing  up  among  the  woods  and  meadows  where  he  had  wan- 
dered as  a  boy.  The  axe  was  always  destroying  his  forest. 
"  Thank  God,"  he  said,  "  they  cannot  cut  down  the  clouds  ! " 

20  Thoreau  died  on  the  6th  of  May,  1862.  His  grave  is  in  the 
beautiful  cemetery  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  Concord,  beside  those  of 
Hawthorne  and  Emerson. 

In  such  a  day,  in  September  or  October,  Walden  is  a 
perfect  forest  mirror,  set  round  with  stones  as  precious 

25  to  ray  eye  as  if  fewer  or  rarer.     Nothing  so  fair,  so 
pure,  and  at  the  same  time  so  large  as  a  lake,  per- 
chance, lies  on  the  surface  of  the  earth.     It  needs  no 
fence.     Nations  come  and  go  without  defiling  it. 
It   is  a  mirror  which  no   stone   can   crack,  whose 

30  quicksilver  will  never  wear  off,  whose  gilding  Nature 
continually  repairs;  no  storms,  no  dust,  can  dim  its 
surface  ever  fresh ;  a  mirror  in  which  all  impurity  pre- 
sented to  it  sinks,  swept  and  dusted  by  the  sun's  hazy 


-»e  23  9«- 

brush,  —  this  the  light  dust-cloth,  —  which  retains  no 
breath  that  is  breathed  on  it,  but  sends  its  own  to  float 
as  clouds  high  above  its  surface,  and  be  reflected  in  its 
bosom  still. 

A  field  of  water  betrays  the  spirit  that  is  in  the  air.  5 
It  is  continually  receiving  new  life  and  motion  from 
above.  It  is  intermediate  in  its  nature  between  land 
and  sky.  On  land  only  the  grass  and  trees  wave,  but 
the  water  itself  is  rippled  by  the  wind.  I  see  where 
the  breeze  dashes  across  it  by  the  streaks  or  flakes  of  10 
light.  It  is  remarkable  that  we  can  look  down  on  its 
surface.  We  shall,  perhaps,  look  down  thus  on  the 
surface  of  air  at  length,  and  mark  where  a  subtler 
spirit  sweeps  over  it.  .  .  . 

One  November  afternoon,  in  the  calm  at  the  end  of  is 
a  rainstorm  of  several  days'  duration,  when  the  sky 
was  completely  overcast  and  the  air  was  full  of  mist,  I 
observed  that  the  pond  was  remarkably  smooth,  so 
that  it  was  difficult  to  distinguish  its  surface ;  though 
it  no  longer  reflected  the  bright  tints  of  October,  but  20 
the  sad,  somber  November  colors  of  the  surrounding 
hills. 

Though  I  passed  over  it  as  gently  as  possible,  the 
slight  undulations  produced  by  my  boat  extended  almost 
as  far  as  I  could  see,  and  gave  a  ribbed  appearance  to  25 
the  reflections.  But,  as  I  looked  over  the  surface,  I 
saw  here  and  there  at  a  distance,  a  faint  glimmer,  as  if 
some  skater  insects  which  had  escaped  the  frosts  might 
be  collected  there,  or,  perchance,  the  surface,  being  so 


->8  24  8«- 

smooth,  betrayed  where  a  spring  welled  up  from  the 
bottom. 

Paddling  gently  to  one  of  these  places,  I  was  sur- 
prised to  find  myself  surrounded  by  myriads  of  small 

5  perch,  about  five  inches  long,  of  a  rich  bronze  color  in 
the  green  water,  sporting  there  and  constantly  rising 
to  the  surface  and  dimpling  it,  sometimes  leaving  bub- 
bles on  it.  In  such  transparent  and  seemingly  bottom- 
less water,  reflecting  the  clouds,  I  seemed  to  be  floating 

le  through  the  air  as  in  a  balloon,  and  their  swimming 
impressed  me  as  a  kind  of  flight  or  hovering,  as  if  they 
were  a  compact  flock  of  birds  passing  just  beneath  my 
level  on  the  right  or  left,  their  fins,  like  sails,  set  all 
around  them. 

is  There  were  many  such  schools  in  the  pond,  appar- 
ently improving  the  short  season  before  winter  would 
draw  an  icy  shutter  over  their  broad  skylight,  some- 
times giving  to  the  surface  an  appearance  as  if  a  slight 
breeze  struck  it,  or  a  few  raindrops  fell  there.     When 

20  I  approached  carelessly  and  alarmed  them,  they  made 
a  sudden  splash  and  rippling  with  their  tails,  as  if  one 
had  struck  the  water  with  a  brushy  bough,  and  instantly 
took  refuge  in  the  depths. 

Even  as  late  as  the  5th  of  December,  one  year,  I 

25  saw  some  dimples  on  the  surface,  and  thinking  it  was 
going  to  rain  hard  immediately,  the  air  being  full  of 
mist,  I  made  haste  to  take  my  place  at  the  oars  and 
row  homeward;  already  the  rain  seemed  rapidly  in- 
creasing, though  I  felt  none  on  my  cheek,  and  I  antici- 


->6  25  8«- 

pated  a  thorough  soaking.  But  suddenly  the  dimples 
ceased,  for  they  were  produced  by  the  perch,  which  the 
noise  of  my  oars  had  scared  into  the  depths,  and  I  saw 
their  schools  rapidly  disappearing;  so  I  spent  a  dry 
afternoon  after  all.  5 

An  old  man  who  used  to  frequent  this  pond  nearly 
sixty  years  ago,  when  it  was  dark  with  surrounding 
forests,  tells  me  that  in  those  days  he  sometimes  saw  it 
all  alive  with  ducks  and  other  waterfowl,  and  that  there 
were  many  eagles  about  it.  He  came  here  a-fishing  10 
and  used  an  old  log  canoe  which  he  found  on  the  shore. 
It  was  made  of  two  white-pine  logs  dug  out  and  pinned 
together,  and  was  cut  off  square  at  the  ends. 

It  was  very  clumsy,  but  lasted  a  great  many  years 
before  it  became  water-logged  and  sank  to  the  bottom.  15 
He  did  not  know  whose  it  was ;  it  belonged  to  the  pond. 

He  used  to  make  a  cable  for  his  anchor,  of  strips  of 
hickory  bark  tied  together.  An  old  man,  a  potter, 
who  lived  by  the  pond  before  the  Revolution,  told  him 
once  that  there  was  an  iron  chest  at  the  bottom,  and  20 
that  he  had  seen  it.  Sometimes  it  would  come  float- 
ing up  to  the  shore ;  but  when  you  went  toward  it,  it 
would  go  back  into  deep  water  and  disappear. 

I  was  pleased  to  hear  of  the  old  log  canoe,  which 
took  the  place  of  an  Indian  one  of  the  same  material  25 
but  more  graceful  construction,  which  perchance  had 
first  been  a  tree  on  the  bank,  and  then,  as  it  were,  fell 
into  the  water,  to  float  there  for  a  generation,  the  most 
proper  vessel  for  the  lake. 


-»8  26  8<- 


THE   PUPPET   SHOW. 


JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON  GOETHE. 


Johann  Wolfgang  von  Goethe,  one  of  the  greatest  writers 
that  Germany  has  ever  produced,  was  born  at  Frankfort  on  the 
Main,  August  28,  1749. 

Goethe  attended  no  school   during   his   early  years,  but  his 
5  surroundings  were  an  education,  and  his  father  and  mother  en- 
couraged him  in  reading  and  studying  the  books  with  which  their 
home  was  filled. 

During  the  Seven  Years'  War  there  were  many  French  soldiers 
at  Frankfort,  and  they  greatly  influenced  the  boy.     From  them 

he  learned  passages  from  plays,  and 
soon  became  well  versed  in  the 
French  language. 

When  he  was  sixteen,  Goethe  en- 
tered the  university  at  Leipsic.    His 
father  sent  him  there  to  study  law, 
but  he  had  already  decided  to  de- 
vote himself  to  literature.     He  also 
became  interested  in  art  and  studied 
drawing,  for  which  he  had  consider- 
able  talent.      He   remained   there 
three  years  and  then  went  to  Stras- 
burg,  entering  the  university. 
At  this  time  he  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  a  noted  German  scholar  and  thinker,  who  taught  him  the 
25  true  value  of  nature  in  art,  and  revealed  to  him  the  beauty  of 
classic  and  English  literature. 

Goethe  returned  to  Frankfort  on  his  twenty-second  birthday. 

His  sister  Cornelia  sympathized  with  him  in  all  his  hopes  and 

aspirations,  but  he  had  outgrown  many  of  the  friends  of  his  boy- 

30  hood.     He  spent  his  time  in  writing,  and  produced  a  number  of 

poems  and  several  essays ;  but  one  of  his  greatest  works  was  a 


-»8  27  g*- 

drama  founded  on  the  history  of  Gottfried,  the  imperial  knight 
of  the  Middle  Ages,  and  was  called  "  Gotz  von  Berlichingen." 
This  work  was  received  with  enthusiasm  throughout  Germany. 
It  was  like  a  trumpet  call,  appealing  to  the  courage  and  chivalry 
of  the  German  spirit.  5 

The  following  spring  Goethe  left  Frankfort  for  Wetzlar,  and 
while  there  wrote  "  Werther."  "  Gotz  "  and  "  Werther  "  were 
read  from  one  end  of  Germany  to  the  other.  "Werther"  was 
translated  into  every  language  in  Europe. 

Beside  these  two  works,  Goethe  translated  Goldsmith's  "De-  10 
serted  Village,"  and  wrote  a  number  of  poems.  His  literary 
success  brought  the  young  author  a  large  number  of  friends,  among 
them  the  Grand  Duke  of  Saxe-Weimar.  Goethe  accepted  the 
duke's  invitation  to  visit  his  little  capital.  He  was  treated  as 
an  honored  guest  and  won  the  affection  of  all.  The  duke  gave  15 
him  a  little  home  near  his  palace,  where  he  lived  during  the  next 
eight  years. 

After  a  time  Goethe  returned  to  Weimar  and  devoted  his  time 
to  writing  history.  He  also  began  to  write  "  Wilhelm  Meister's 
Apprenticeship,"  which  is  filled  with  scenes  from  his  own  life.  20 
In  1821  "  Wilhelm  Meister's  Travels  "  appeared.  These  books 
are  filled  with  truth,  beauty,  and  life,  and  stand  in  the  first  ranks 
of  the  author's  works. 

For  many  years  he  had  had  the  story  of  "Faust"  in  his  mind. 
The  first  part  was  published  when  he  was  sixty  years  old,  in  25 
company  with  a  thirte en-volume  edition  of  his  works.  This  was 
the  crowning  effort  of  Goethe's  life  and  the  greatest  of  his  works. 
The  second  part  of  "Faust"  was  written  after  the  poet  had 
passed  his  seventieth  birthday,  and  when  it  was  completed  Goethe 
felt  that  his  life  work  was  over.  30 

His  death  occurred  on  the  15th  of  March,  1832. 

I  never  can  forget  that  happy  Christmas  day.  I  see 
it  still  before  me.  I  remember  how  surprised  we  were 
when,  after  we  had  received  our  customary  presents, 
mother  seated  us  before  the  door  that  leads  to  the  other  35 


-»8  28  fr- 

room.  The  door  opened,  but  not,  as  formerly,  to  let 
us  pass;  the  entrance  was  occupied  by  an  unexpected 
show. 

Within  it  rose  a  porch  concealed  by  a  mysterious 
5  curtain.  All  of  us  were  standing  at  a  distance;  our 
eagerness  to  see  what  glittering  or  jingling  article 
lay  hid  behind  the  half-transparent  veil  was  mount- 
ing higher  and  higher,  when  we  were  told  to  sit  down 
and  wait  with  patience. 

10  At  length  we  were  all  seated  and  silent;  a  whistle 
gave  the  signal;  the  curtain  rolled  aloft  and  showed 
us  the  interior  of  the  temple,  painted  in  deep  red  colors. 
The  high-priest  Samuel  appeared  with  Jonathan,  and 
their  strange  voices  seemed  to  me  the  most  striking 

15  thing  on  earth. 

Shortly  after,  Saul  entered,  overwhelmed  with  con- 
fusion at  the  impertinence  of  that  giant  warrior  who 
had  defied  him  and  all  his  people.  How  glad  I  was 
when  the  valiant  young  son  of  Jesse,  with  his  shep- 

20  herd's  pouch  and  sling,  came  forth  and  said :  "  Dread 
king  and  sovereign  lord !  let  no  one's  heart  sink  down 
because  of  this.  If  your  Majesty  will  give  me  leave,  I 
will  go  out  to  battle  with  this  blustering  giant." 

Here  ended  the  first  act ;  leaving  the  spectators  more 

25  curious  than  ever  to  see  what  further  would  happen, 
and  wishing  that  the  music  might  soon  be  done.  At 
last  the  curtain  rose  again.  David  devoted  the  flesh  of 
the  monster  to  the  fowls  of  the  air  and  the  beasts  of  the 
field ;  the  Philistine  scorned  and  bullied  him,  stamped 


-»8  29  9«- 

mightily  with  his  feet,  and  at  length  fell  like  a  mass  of 
clay,  affording  a  splendid  ending  for  the  piece.  And 
then  the  maidens  sang  "  Saul  has  slain  his  thousands, 
but  David  his  ten  thousands  ! "  The  giant's  head  was 
borne  before  his  little  victor.  5 

Next  morning,  alas !  the  magic  apparatus  had  van- 
ished; the  mysterious  veil  was  carried  away.  My 
brothers  and  sisters  were  running  up  and  down  with 
their  playthings;  I  alone  kept  gliding  to  and  fro;  it 
seemed  to  me  impossible  that  two  bare  doorposts  could  10 
be  all  that  now  remained,  where  the  night  before  so 
much  enchantment  had  displayed  itself. 

"  I  can  easily  imagine,"  said  the  mother, "  how  these 
things  should  lodge  so  firmly  in  your  mind;  I  well  re- 
member what  an  interest  you  took  in  them ;  how  you  15 
found  the  book  and  learned  the  whole  piece  by  heart. 
I  then  felt  such  a  motherly  contentment  at  your  fine 
recitation  and  good  memory  that  I  resolved  to  give 
the  whole  wooden  troop  to  your  own  disposal." 

By  good  fortune  this  happened  at  a  time  when  the  20 
lieutenant  —  a  young  officer  who  had  made  this  little 
theater  himself  and  presented  it  to  us  children  —  had 
himself  been  expressing  a  desire  to  initiate  me  into  the 
mysteries  of  the  art.  He  now  contrived  to  persuade 
my  parents  to  offer  him  the  use  of  two  chambers  in  the  25 
top  story  of  the  house,  that  he  might  accommodate  the 
spectators  in  one,  while  the  other  held  his  actors. 

At  last  the  wished-for  day  arrived.     At  five  in  the 
evening,  my  instructor  came  and  took  me  upstairs  with 


-*e  30  9*- 

him.  Trembling  with  joy,  I  entered  and  beheld  on  both 
sides  of  the  framework  the  puppets  all  hanging  in  order, 
as  they  were  to  advance  to  view. 

I  considered  them  carefully,  mounted  the  steps  which 

5  raised  them  above  the  scene,  and  hovered  aloft  above 
that  little  world.  Not  without  reverence  did  I  look 
down  between  the  pieces  of  board  and  recollect  what 
a  glorious  effect  the  whole  would  produce,  and  feel  into 
what  mighty  secrets  I  was  now  admitted.     We  made 

10  a  trial  which  succeeded  well. 

A  party  of  children  were  invited  on  the  next  day. 
We  performed  rarely,  except  that  once,  in  the  fire  of 
action,  I  let  poor  Jonathan  fall,  and  was  obliged  to 
reach  down  with  my  hand  and  pick  him  up  again ;  an 

is  accident  which  sadly  marred  the  illusion,  produced  a 
peal  of  laughter,  and  vexed  me  greatly.  My  father, 
however,  seemed  to  relish  this  misfortune  not  a  little. 
Prudently  hiding  his  contentment  at  the  expertness  of  his 
little  boy,  after  the  piece  was  finished  he  dwelt  on  the 

20  mistakes  we  had  committed,  saying  it  would  all  have 

been  very  pretty  had  not  this  or  that  gone  wrong  with  us. 

I  was  vexed  to  the  heart  at  these  things  and  sad  for  all 

the  evening.     By  next  morning,  however,  I  had  quite 

slept  off  my  sorrow  and  was  blest  in  the  persuasion 

25  that,  but  for  this  one  fault,  I  had  played  delightfully. 
The  spectators  also  flattered  me  with  their  unanimous 
approval;  they  all  maintained  that  though  the  lieu- 
tenant>  in  regard  to  the  coarse  and  the  fine  voices,  had 
done  great  things,  yet  his  declamation  was  in  general 


-»8  31    8«- 

too  stiff  and  affected ;  whereas  the  new  aspirant  spoke 
his  Jonathan  and  David  with  exquisite  grace.  My 
mother  in  particular  commended  the  gallant  tone  in 
which  I  had  challenged  Goliath  and  acted  the  modest 
victor  before  the  king.  5 

From  this  time,  to  my  extreme  delight,  the  theater 
continued  open;  and  as  the  spring  advanced,  so  that 
fires  could  be  dispensed  with,  I  passed  all  my  hours  of 
recreation  lying  in  the  garret  and  making  the  puppets 
caper  and  play  together.  10 

Often  I  invited  my  comrades,  or  my  brothers  and 
sisters;  but  when  they  would  not  come,  I  stayed  by 
myself.  My  imagination  brooded  over  that  tiny  world. 
My  greatest  pleasure  lay  in  the  inventive  part  and  the 
employment  of  my  fancy.  But  it  happened  with  me  15 
as  it  often  happens  with  children ;  they  embrace  wide 
plans,  make  mighty  preparations,  then  a  few  trials,  and 
the  whole  undertaking  is  abandoned. 

This  or  that  piece  inspired  me  with  interest  for  a  few 
scenes  of  it,  and  immediately  I  set  about  providing  new  20 
costumes  suitable  for  the  occasion.  I  surrendered  my- 
self to  my  imagination ;  I  rehearsed  and  prepared  for- 
ever ;  built  a  thousand  castles  in  the  air,  and  saw  not 
that  I  was  at  the  same  time  undermining  the  founda- 
tions of  these  little  edifices.     '  25 

From  "  Wilhelm  Meister's  Apprenticeship." 


-»6  32  8«- 

THE   DESCENT  INTO  THE   MAELSTROM. 

[Abridged.] 
EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

Edgar  Allan  Poe  was  born  in  Boston  on  the  19th  of  Janu- 
ary, 1809.  His  father  and  mother  were  actors  and  died  in 
Kichmond,  Va.,  when  Edgar  was  but  two  years  old. 

The  beauty  and  attractive  manners  of  the  boy  won  the  atten- 

5  tion  of  Mr.  John  Allan,  a  wealthy  gentleman  living  at  Eichmond, 
and  he  adopted  the  little  fellow. 

Edgar  was  an  interesting  child,  bright,  loving,  and  generous. 
He  was  dressed  like  a  little  prince  and  had  his  own  pony  and  dogs 
and  a  groom,  with  whom  he  rode  every  day.     He  soon  showed 

10  a  love  of  poetry  and  repeated  long  passages  to  visitors  with  such 
appreciation  of  their  meaning  as  to  delight  his  hearers.  At  the 
age  of  eleven  Edgar  attended  a  school  at  Kichmond.  He  was  a 
very  apt  pupil,  progressing  rapidly  in  Latin  and  Greek,  and 
showing  a  deep  love  of  poetry.     He  began  to  write  poems  to  his 

15  girl  playmates  before  he  was  ten  years  old. 

His  schoolmates  found  him  a  brave,  unselfish  boy,  championing 
those  who  were  weak,  and  taking  many  a  hard  blow  in  defending 
his  friends. 

After  leaving  this  school,  Poe  entered  the  University  of  Vir- 

20  ginia,  and  was  a  successful  student  during  his  year  there.  While 
at  college  he  had  engaged  in  gambling,  and  when  Mr.  Allan 
learned  of  debts  of  this  kind  he  refused  to  pay  them.  Edgar 
then  left  him  in  anger,  going  to  the  home  of  his  father's  sister, 
Mrs.  Clemm. 

25       Upon  the  death  of  his  adopted  mother,  he  hastened  to  his  child- 
hood's home.     Mr.  Allan  became  reconciled  to  him  and  obtained 
for  him  a  West  Point  scholarship.    He  entered  the  military  school 
'  when  he  was  twenty-one,  and  for  a  time  was  a  diligent  student ; 
but  he  became  restless  and  determined  to  leave.     Mr.  Allan  would 

30  not  consent  to  this,  but  Poe  neglected  his  duties  and  conducted 
himself  in  so  disorderly  a  mariner  that  he  was  expelled. 


-»6  33^ 


He  returned  to  Richmond  for  a  while  and  then  enlisted  in  the 
army,  but  was  taken  ill,  and  his  friends  procured  his  discharge. 

About  the  year  1832  a  Baltimore  paper  called  "  The  Saturday 
Visitor  "  offered  two  prizes  —  one  for  the  best  tale  and  the  other 
for  the  best  poem. 

Poe  sent  a  poem  and  a  number  of  tales  which  so  fascinated 
the  judges  that  it  was  with  difficulty  that  they  decided  upon  one. 
"  The  Descent  into  the  Maelstrom  " 
was  at  first  chosen,  but  "  A  MS. 
Found  in  a  Bottle"  was  finally 
preferred,  and  received  the  hun- 
dred-dollar prize. 

Poe  spent  several  years  in  Bal- 
timore, writing  for  periodicals,  but 
after  a  time  went  to  New  York 
and  accepted  the  invitation  of 
some  literary  men  to  join  them 
in  editing  a  paper.  After  a  year 
in  New  York,  Poe  removed  to 
Philadelphia  and  became  editor  of 
a  magazine.      Some   of  his  best 

prose  tales  were  written  at  this  time,  among   them  "Ligeia," 
which  was  inspired  by  a  dream. 

He  was  married  in  Baltimore  to  his  cousin,  Virginia  Clemm. 
Their  home  was  a  happy  one,  and  the  poet  was  devoted  to  his  25 
wife,  who  was  an  invalid.  In  his  poem  "Annabel  Lee"  he 
touchingly  describes  her  loving  character.  He  returned  to  New 
York,  and  it  was  there  that  "  The  Raven,"  his  greatest  poem, 
was  written.  The  fame  gained  by  its  publication  assisted  him 
in  bringing  out  a  new  edition  of  his  poetry  and  two  volumes  of  30 
tales. 

In  1846  Poe  removed  to  Fordham,  N.  Y.,  where  he  lived  in  a 
picturesque  little  cottage  at  the  top  of  a  hill.  He  was  greatly 
saddened  by  the  illness  of  his  wife  and  his  poverty. 

The  last  year  of  Poe's  life  was  filled  with  dark  scenes,  and  he  35 
died  at  Baltimore  on  the  7th  of  October,  1849. 


-*8  34  8«~ 

We  had  now  reached  the  summit  of  the  loftiest 
crag.  For  some  minutes  the  old  man  seemed  too 
much  exhausted  to  speak. 

"  Not  long  ago,"  said  he  at  length,  "  I  could  have 
5  guided  you  on  this  route  as  well  as  the  youngest  of  my 
sons;  but,  about  three  years  past,  there  happened  to 
me  an  event  such  as  never  happened  before  to  mortal 
man,  —  or  at  least  such  as  no  man  ever  survived  to  tell 
of,  —  and  the  six  hours  of  deadly  terror  which  I  then 
10  endured  have  broken  me  up  body  and  soul.  Do  you 
know  I  can  scarcely  look  over  this  little  cliff  without 
getting  giddy  ? 

"  We  are  now,"  he  continued,  "  upon  the  Norwegian 
coast.  The  mountain  upon  whose  top  we  sit  is  Hel- 
15  seggen,  the  Cloudy.  Now  raise  yourself  up  a  little 
higher  —  hold  on  to  the  grass  if  you  feel  giddy  —  so  — 
and  look  out,  beyond  the  belt  of  vapor  beneath  us,  into 
the  sea." 

I  looked  dizzily,  and  beheld  a  wide  expanse  of  ocean. 

20  To  the  right  and  left,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach, 

there  lay  outstretched,  lines  of  black  and  beetling  cliff. 

"Do  you  hear  anything?  Do  you  see  any  change 
in  the  water  ?  "  exclaimed  the  old  man. 

As  he  spoke  I  became  aware  of  a  loud  and  gradually 
25  increasing  sound,  like  the  moaning  of  a  vast  herd  of 
buffaloes  upon  an  American  prairie.  In  five  minutes 
the  whole  sea  was  lashed  into  ungovernable  fury  ;  but 
it  was  between  Moskoe  and  the  coast  that  the  main 
uproar  held  its  sway.     Here  the  vast  bed  of  the  waters 


-46  35  8<*- 

burst  suddenly  into  frenzied  convulsion,  —  heaving,  boil- 
ing, hissing,  —  and  all  whirling  and  plunging  on  to 
the  eastward. 

The  edge  of  the  whirl,  which  was  more  than  a  mile 
in  diameter,  was  represented  by  a  broad  belt  of  gleam-  5 
ing  spray;  but  no  particle  of  this  slipped  into  the 
mouth  of  the  terrific  funnel,  whose  interior,  as  far  as 
the  eye  could  fathom  it,  was  a  smooth,  shining,  and 
jet-black  wall  of  water,  speeding  dizzily  round  and 
round,  and  sending  forth  to  the  winds  an  appalling  10 
voice,  half  shriek,  half  roar,  such  as  not  even  the 
mighty  cataract  of  Niagara  ever  lifts  up  in  its  agony 
to  Heaven. 

The  mountain  trembled  to  its  very  base. 

"  This,"  I  cried,  "  this  can  be  nothing  else  than  the  15 
great  whirlpool  of  the  Maelstrom!" 

"So  it  is  sometimes  termed,"  said  he.  "We  Nor- 
wegians call  it  the  Moskoe-strom,  from  the  island  of 
Moskoe  in  the  midway. 

"  Myself  and  my  two  brothers  once  owned  a  schooner-  20 
rigged  smack  of  about  seventy  tons  burden,  with  which 
we  were  in  the  habit  of  fishing  among  the  islands  be- 
yond Moskoe. 

"It  is  now  within  a  few  days  of  three  years  since 
what  I  am  going  to  tell  you  occurred.  It  was  on  the  25 
10th  of  July,  18 — .  The  three  of  us  —  my  two  brothers 
and  myself  —  had  crossed  over  to  the  islands  about  two 
o'clock  p.m.,  and  soon  nearly  loaded  the  smack  with 
fine  fish.     It  was  just   seven,  by  my  watch,  when  we 


x  -i6  36  8«- 

weighed  and  started  for  home,  so  as  to  make  the  worst 
of  the  Strom  at  slackwater,  which  we  knew  would  be 
at  eight. 

"We  set  out  with  a  fresh  wind  at  our  starboard 
5  quarter,  and  for  some  time  sped  along  at  a  great  rate, 
never  dreaming  of  danger.  All  at  once  we  were  taken 
aback  by  a  breeze  from  over  Helseggen.  We  put  the 
boat  on  the  wind,  but  could  make  no  headway  at  all 
for  the  eddies,  and  I  was  upon  the  point  of  proposing 

10  to  return  to  the  anchorage,  when,  looking  astern,  we 
saw  the  whole  horizon  covered  with  a  singular  copper- 
colored  cloud  that  rose  with  the  most  amazing  velocity. 
"  In  less  than  a  minute  the  storm  was  upon  us ;  in 
less  than  two  the  sky  was  entirely  overcast ;  and  what 

15  with  this  and  the  driving  spray,  it  became  suddenly  so 
dark  that  we  could  not  see  each  other  in  the  smack. 

"  Such  a  hurricane  as  then  blew  it  is  folly  to  attempt 
describing.  At  the  first  puff,  both  our  masts  went  by 
the  board  as  if  they  had  been  sawed  off  —  the  main- 

20  mast  taking  with  it  my  youngest  brother,  who  had 
lashed  himself  to  it  for  safety. 

"  For  some  moments  we  were  completely  deluged,  but 
presently  our  little  boat  gave  herself  a  shake,  just  as  a 
dog  does  in  coming  out  of  the  water,  and  thus  rid  her- 

25  self,  in  some  measure,  of  the  seas.  I  was  now  trying 
to  get  the  better  of  the  stupor  that  had  come  over  me, 
and  to  collect  my  senses  so  as  to  see  what  was  to  be 
done,  when  I  felt  somebody  grasp  my  arm.  It  was  my 
elder  brother,  and  my  heart  leaped  for  joy,  for  I  had 


-*8  37  8«- 

felt  sure  that  he  was  overboard ;  but  the  next  mo- 
ment all  this  joy  was  turned  into  horror,  for  he  put 
his  mouth  close  to  my  ear  and  screamed  out  the  word 
'  Moskoe-strom ! ' 

"  I  knew  what  he  meant  by  that  one  word  well    5 
enough  —  I  knew  what  he  wished  to"make  me  under- 
stand.    With  the  wind  that  now  drove  us  on,  we  were 
bound  for  the  whirl  of  the  Strom  and  nothing  could 
save  us ! 

"A  singular  change  had  come  over  the  heavens.  10 
Around  in  every  direction  it  was  still  as  black  as  pitch, 
but  nearly  overhead  there  burst  out,  all  at  once,  a  cir- 
cular rift  of  clear  sky  —  as  clear  as  I  ever  saw  —  and 
of  a  deep,  bright  blue  —  and  through  it  there  blazed 
forth  the  full  moon  with  a  luster  that  I  never  before  15 
knew  her  to  wear.  She  lit  up  everything  about  us 
with  the  greatest  distinctness  —  but,  oh,  what  a  scene 
it  was  to  light  up ! 

"  A  hideous  thought  flashed  upon  me.  I  dragged  my 
watch  from  its  fob.  It  was  not  going.  I  glanced  at  20 
its  face  by  the  moonlight,  and  then  burst  into  tears  as 
I  flung  it  far  away  into  the  ocean.  It  had  run  down  at 
seven  o'clock  !  We  were  behind  the  time  of  the  slack, 
and  the  whirl  of  the  Strom  was  in  full  fury ! 

"  So  far  we  had  ridden  the  swells  very  cleverly ;  but  25 
presently  a  gigantic  sea   happened  to  take   us   right 
under  the  counter,  and  bore  us  with  it  as  it  rose  —  up 
—  up  —  as  if  into  the  sky.     I  would  not  have  believed 
that  any  wave  could  rise  so  high.     And  then  down  we 


-»8  38  8«- 

came  with  a  sweep,  a  slide,  and  a  plunge  that  made 
me  feel  sick  and  dizzy,  as  if  I  were  falling  from  some 
lofty  mountain-top  in  a  dream.  But  while  we  were  up 
I  had  thrown  a  quick  glance  around ;  and  that  one 
5  glance  was  all-sufficient.  I  saw  our  exact  position  in 
an  instant.  The  Moskoe-strom  whirlpool  was  about  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  dead  ahead  —  but  no  more  like  the 
everyday  Moskoe-strom  than  the  whirl  as  you  now 
see  it  is  like  a  mill-race. 

10  "  It  could  not  have  been  more  than  two  minutes  after- 
ward when  we  suddenly  felt  the  waves  subside  and  were 
enveloped  in  foam.  We  were  now  in  the  belt  of  surf  that 
always  surrounds  the  whirl ;  and  I  thought,  of  course, 
that  another  moment  would  plunge  us  into  the  abyss. 

15  "  It  may  appear  strange,  but  now,  when  we  were  in 
the  very  jaws  of  the  gulf,  I  felt  more  composed  than 
when  we  were  only  approaching  it.  I  began  to  reflect 
how  magnificent  a  thing  it  was  to  die  in  such  a 
manner,  and  how  foolish  it  was  in  me  to  think  of  so 

20  paltry  a  consideration  as  my  own  individual  life,  in 
view  of  so  wonderful  a  manifestation  of  God's  power. 
After  a  little  while  I  became  possessed  with  the  keen- 
est curiosity  about  the  whirl  itself.  I  positively  felt  a 
wish  to  explore  its  depths,  even  at  the  sacrifice  I  was 

25  going  to  make. 

"  We  careered  round  and  round  for  perhaps  an  hour, 
flying  rather  than  floating,  going  gradually  more  and 
more  into  the  middle  of  the  surge,  and  then  nearer  and 
nearer  to  its  horrible  inner  edge.     Suddenly  we  gave 


-•6  39  8«- 

a  wild  lurch  to  starboard  and  rushed  headlong  into  the 
abyss. 

"  Never  shall  I  forget  the  sensations  of  awe,  horror, 
and  admiration  with  which  I  gazed  about  me.  The 
boat  appeared  to  be  hanging,  as  if  by  magic,  midway  5 
down,  upon  the  interior  surface  of  a  funnel  vast  and 
deep,  whose  perfectly  smooth  sides  might  have  been 
mistaken  for  ebony,  but  for  the  bewildering  rapidity 
with  which  they  spun  around,  and  for  the  gleaming 
and  ghastly  radiance  they  shot  forth,  as  the  rays  of  10 
the  full  moon  from  that  circular  rift  amid  the  clouds 
which  I  have  already  described  streamed  in  a  flood  of 
golden  glory  along  the  black  walls,  and  far  away  down 
into  the  inmost  recesses  of  the  abyss. 

"  The  rays  of  the  moon  seemed  to  search  the  very  15 
bottom  of  the  profound  gulf,  over  which  there  hung  a 
magnificent  rainbow. 

"  Both  above  and  below  us  were  visible  fragments  of 
vessels,  large  masses  of  building  timber,  and  trunks  of 
trees,  with  many  smaller  articles.  I  called  to  mind  the  20 
great  variety  of  buoyant  matter  that  strewed  the  coast 
of  Lofoden,  having  been  absorbed  and  then  thrown 
forth  by  the  Moskoe-strom.  By  far  the  greater  num- 
ber of  the  articles  were  shattered  in  the  most  extraor- 
dinary way  ;  but  then  I  distinctly  recollected  that  there  25 
were  some  of  them  which  were  not  disfigured  at  all. 

"  I  resolved  to  lash  myself  -securely  to  a  water  cask, 
to  cut  it  loose,  and  to  throw  myself  with  it  into  the 
water.     I  tried  to  induce  my  brother  to  do  likewise, 


-•8  40  9«~ 

but  he  shook  his  head  despairingly  and  refused  to  move. 
The  emergency  admitted  of  no  delay;  and  so  with  a 
bitter  struggle  I  resigned  him  to  his  fate,  fastened 
myself  to  the  cask,  and  precipitated  myself  with  it  into 
5  the  sea,  without  another  moment's  hesitation. 

"  The  result  was  precisely  what  I  had  hoped  it  might 
be.  It  might  have  been  an  hour,  or  thereabout,  after 
my  quitting  the  smack,  when,  having  descended  to  a 
vast  distance  beneath  me,  it  made  three  or  four  wild 

10  gyrations  in  rapid  succession,  and,  bearing  my  loved 
brother  with  it,  plunged  headlong,  at  once  and  forever, 
into  the  chaos  of  foam  below.  The  barrel  to  which 
I  was  attached  sank  very  little  farther  than  half  the 
distance  between  the  bottom  of  the  gulf  and  the  spot 

15  at  which  I  leaped  overboard,  before  a  great  change 
took  place  in  the  character  of  the  whirlpool.  The  slope 
of  the  sides  of  the  vast  funnel  became  less  and  less 
steep.  The  gyrations  of  the  whirl  grew  gradually  less 
and  less  violent.     By  degrees  the  froth  and  the  rainbow 

20  disappeared,  and  the  bottom  of  the  gulf  seemed  slowly 
to  uprise.  The  sky  was  clear,  the  winds  had  gone  down, 
and  the  full  moon  was  setting  radiantly  in  the  west, 
when  I  found  myself  on  the  surface  of  the  ocean,  in 
full  view  of  the  shores  of  Lofoden,  and  above  the  spot 

26  where  the  pool  of  the  Moskoe-strom  had  been.  I  was 
borne  violently  into  the  channel  of  the  Strom,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  was  hurried  down  the  coast  into  the 
grounds  of  the  fishermen,  where  a  boat  picked  me  up." 


-»8  41  8*- 


THE    ALBATROSS. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  was  born  in  England  on  the 
21st  of  October,  1772.  His  father  was  both  vicar  and  school- 
master of  the  parish. 

Samuel  was  the  youngest  of  thirteen  children.  He  was  a 
sensitive,  delicate  child,  with  a  vivid  imagination,  and  loved  to 
be  by  himself. 

He  began  his  education  at  the  free  grammar  school,  and  was 
found  to  have  a  remarkable  mind.  His  father  died  before  he 
was  nine  years  old,  and  the  boy 
felt  his  loss  deeply,  "fhe  mother 
was  poor,  and  Samuel  was  sent  to 
London  to  live  with  an  uncle,  never 
returning  to  his  native  town  ex- 
cept on  occasional  visits.  The 
scenes  of  his  early  home  were, 
however,  so  impressed  upon  his 
memory  that  he  afterwards  said 
that  whenever  he  closed  his  eyes 
in  the  sunlight  he  saw  afresh  the 
waters  of  the  Otter,  its  willowy 
banks,  the  plank  that  crossed  it,  and  the  sand  of  varied  tints 
that  lay  in  its  bed. 

After  spending  three  months  in  London,  Coleridge  was  ad- 
mitted to  the  charity  school  at  Christ's  Hospital.  There  was 
little  in  his  life  to  make  him  happy,  but  he  was  obliged  to  remain  25 
there  from  eight  to  nine  years.  He  made  some  warm  friends, 
among  them  a  timid,  sensitive  boy  named  Charles  Lamb,  who  in 
after  years  became  famous,  under  the  pen-name  of  "  Elia,"  as  the 
author  of  a  number  of  quaint  and  charming  essays. 

Coleridge  was  a  born  poet,  and  in  spite  of  his  hardship  began  30 
writing  poems  during  these  school  days.     He  used  to  act  out 
what  he  had  read,  and  imagine  himself  the  hero  of  legend  or 


-»8  42,9«- 

history.     Lamb  wrote  of  him :    "  The  walls  of   the  old   Grey 
Friars  reechoed  to  the  accents  of  the  inspired  charity  boy  ! " 

Coleridge  entered  Cambridge  University  when  he  was  nineteen. 
He  enjoyed  the  social  life  there,  and  his  rooms  at  college  became 
5  a  center  of  attraction.  In  spite  of  this,  his  life  was  not  happy 
and  he  fled  from  college,  enlisting  under  an  assumed  name  in  a 
regiment  of  dragoons.  He  was  a  poor  horseman,  but  a  favorite 
in  camp  because  of  his  gift  at  telling  stories  and  his  readiness  to 
nurse  the  sick  and  write  letters  for  his  comrades. 

10       One  day  he  wrote  a  Latin  quotation  on  a  stall,  and  an  officer, 

•  seeing  that  he  was  a  scholar,  made  him  his  orderly.     It  was  part 

of  Coleridge's  duty  to  walk  behind  his  officer  in  the  streets,  where 

he  was  recognized  one  day  by  a  student,  and  his  friends  procured 

his  discharge. 

15  He  returned  to  Cambridge,  and  was  soon  busily  engaged  in  his 
studies. 

During  the  vacation  of  his  last  year  at  Cambridge,  Coleridge 
visited  one  of  his  old  school-fellows  at  Bristol.  While  there  he 
made  the  acquaintance  of  Sara  Fricker,  who  became  his  wife 

20  in  October  of  1795.  He,  in  company  with  other  friends,  had 
decided  to  go  to  America  and  there  establish  a  colony,  but  their 
plan  was  given  up. 

Coleridge  had  sold  some  poems  for  thirty  guineas,  and  with 
this  sum  he  started  in  life.      He  found  a  pretty  little  cottage 

25  at  Clevedon,  near  Bristol.  It  was  one  story  high,  with  a  rose 
tree  peeping  in  at  the  window.  Here  the  youthful  pair  began 
their  married  life. 

Literature  now  became  his  chosen  profession.  His  first  vol- 
ume of  poems  was  published  when  he  was  twenty -four  years  old. 

30  This  was  followed  by  a  volume  of  sonnets;  and  still  later  he 
published  his  "Ode  to  the  Departing  Year." 

Hartley  Coleridge,  the  poet's  first  son,  was  born  during  the  next 
fall ;  and  soon  after  the  family  went  to  Nether  Stowey.  Coleridge 
had  made  the  acquaintance  of  Wordsworth.     The  latter  moved  to 

35  Alfoxden  and  the  two  poets  became  lifelong  friends.  At  this 
time  Coleridge  wrote  "  The  Kime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner,"  "  The 


-»8  43  3<- 

Dark  Ladie,"  and  the  first  part  of  "  Christabel,"  and  was  also 
engaged  in  writing  for  several  newspapers. 

"The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner "  was  planned  during  a 
walk,  and  the  story  of  the  albatross  was  suggested  by  Words- 
worth. For  two  years  Coleridge  led  a  happy  life.  He  then  5 
became  discouraged  and  burdened  by  debt.  Some  friends  fur- 
nished him  with  the  necessary  funds  and  he  sailed  for  Germany, 
remaining  there  about  a  year. 

In  the  summer  of  1800  Coleridge  took  his  family  to  Greta 
Hall,  near  Keswick.     A  painful  disease  led  him  to  take  drugs,  10 
and  he  became  a  slave  to  the  use  of  opium. 

Coleridge  soon  left  Keswick  and  went  to  London,  where  he 
lived  in  poverty.  A  friend  had  left  him  a  pension,  and  the  poet 
set  it  aside  for  the  support  of  his  family. 

His  poems  had  at  this  time  become  well  known,  and  he  might  15 
have  spent  his  last  years  in  comfort  had  it  not  been  for   his 
terrible  bondage  ;   but  the  last  twenty  years  of  his  life  were  spent 
in  wretchedness  and  failure. 

Coleridge  died  on  the  25th  of  July,  1834.     Life  had  lost  hope 
for  him,  and  his  success  as  a  poet  failed  to  cheer  him.     His  20 
works  are  exquisite  in  thought  and  expression,  and  command 
the  admiration  of  all  true  lovers  of  poetry. 

Part  I. 

The  ship  was  cheered,  the  harbor  cleared, 

Merrily  did  we  drop 

Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill, 

Below  the  lighthouse  top. 

The  Sun  came  up  upon  the  left, 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he ! 
And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 


-»6  44  8<- 

And  now  the  Storm-blast  came,  and  he 
Was  tyrannous  and  strong : 
He  struck  with  his  o'ertaking  wings, 
And  chased  us  south  along. 

With  sloping  masts  and  dipping  prow, 

As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 

Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe, 

And  forward  bends  his  head, 

The  ship  drove  fast,  loud  roared  the  blast, 

And  southward  aye  we  fled. 

And  now  there  came  both  mist  and  snow, 
And  it  grew  wondrous  cold ; 
And  ice,  mast-high,  came  floating  by, 
As  green  as  emerald. 

And  through  the  drifts  the  snowy  clifts 
Did  send  a  dismal  sheen : 
Nor  shapes  of  men  nor  beasts  we  ken  — 
The  ice  was  all  between. 

The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there, 

The  ice  was  all  around : 

It  cracked  and  growled,  and  roared  and  howled, 

Like  noises  in  a  swound ! 

At  length  did  cross  an  Albatross : 
Thorough  the  fog  it  came ; 
As  if  it  had  been  a  Christian  soul, 
We  hailed  it  in  God's  name. 


-»6  45  9*- 

It  ate  the  food  it  ne'er  had  eat, 
And  round  and  round  it  flew. 
The  ice  did  split  with  a  thunder-fit ; 
The  helmsman  steered  us  through ! 

And  a  good  south  wind  sprung  up  behind ; 

The  Albatross  did  follow, 

And  every  day,  for  food  or  play, 

Came  to  the  mariner's  hollo ! 

In  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud, 

It  perched  for  vespers  nine ; 

Whiles  all  the  night,  through  fog-smoke  white, 

Glimmered  the  white  moon-shine. 

"  God  save  thee,  ancient  Mariner ! 
From  the  fiends,  that  plague  thee  thus !  — 
Why  look'st  thou  so?"  —  With  my  cross-bow 
I  shot  the  Albatross. 

Part  II. 

The  Sun  now  rose  upon  the  right : 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he, 
Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

And  the  good  south  wind  still  blew  behind, 
But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow, 
Nor  any  day  for  food  or  play 
Came  to  the  mariner's  hollo ! 


-40  46  8«- 


"  FOR    ALL   AVERRED    I    HAD    KILLED   THE    BIRD." 

For  all  averred  I  had  killed  the  bird 
That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 
Ah  wretch !  said  they,  the  bird  to  slay, 
That  made  the  breeze  to  blow ! 


The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew, 

The  furrow  followed  free ; 

We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 

Into  that  silent  sea. 

Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt  down, 
'T  was  sad  as  sad  could  be ; 
And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea ! 


-Q  47  Si- 
All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky, 
The  bloody  Sun,  at  noon, 
Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand, 
No  bigger  than  the  Moon. 

Day  after  day,  day  after  day, 
We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion ; 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 

Water,  water,  everywhere, 
And  all  the  boards  did  shrink ; 
Water,  water,  everywhere, 
Nor  any  drop  to  drink.    . 

About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout 
The  death-fires  danced  at  night ; 
The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils, 
Burnt  green,  and  blue,  and  white. 

And  every  tongue,  through  utter  drought, 
Was  withered  at  the  root ; 
We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 
We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 

Ah  !  well-a-day !  what  evil  looks 
Had  I  from  old  and  young ! 
Instead  of  the  cross,  the  Albatross 
About  my  neck  was  hung. 

From  "  The  Ancient  Mariner.11 


-»8  48  3«- 

PICCIOLA. 
X.  B.  SAINTINE. 

X.  B.  Saintine  is  the  pen  name  of  a  French  writer,  who 
was  born  at  Paris  in  1798.  His  earliest  works  were  so  full  of 
good  cheer  and  sympathy  that  they  won  many  readers. 

Saintine  received  a  prize  for  his  writings    from  the  French 
5  Academy  when  he  was  but  twenty-one,  and  two  years  later  a 
second  prize  was  awarded  him  by  the  same  Academy. 

In  1823  he  published  a  book  of  poems ;  but  his  most  famous 
work  is  "  Picciola."    The  story  is  beautifully  told,  and  its  charm 
seems  everlasting. 
10       The  Academy  awarded  it  a  prize  of  three  thousand  francs,  and 
decorated  the  author  with  the  cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor. 

Saintine  laid   aside  his  writing  during   his  later   years  and 
enjoyed  a  peaceful  and  happy  old  age,  surrounded  by  his  many 
friends  and  all  the  comforts  of  life.      His  death  occurred  in 
15  1865. 

One  day  Charney  was  breathing  the  fresh  air  in  the 
little  court  of  the  fortress,  his  head  declining,  his  eyes 
downcast,  his  arms  crossed  behind  him,  pacing  with 
slow  and  measured  steps. 

20  Spring  was  breaking.  A  milder  air  breathing  around 
tantalized  him  with  a  vain  inclination  to  enjoy  the 
season  at  liberty.  He  was  proceeding  to  number,  one 
by  one,  the  stones  paving  the  courtyard,  when  he  per- 
ceived a  small   mound  of   earth  rising  between  two 

25  stones  of  the  pavement,  cleft  slightly  at  the  summit. 
The  Count  stopped  short,  his  heart  beat  hurriedly. 
Who  could   decide   that   this   trifling   irregularity  on 


-»8  49  e<- 

the  surface  might  not  indicate  important  operations 
underground?  Perhaps  his  former  friends  had  been 
mining  to  procure  access  to  his  dungeon  and  restore 
him  to  light  and  liberty.  He  listened !  He  fancied  he 
could  detect  a  low  murmur.  He  raised  his  head,  and  5 
the  loud  and  rapid  clang  of  the  tocsin  saluted  his  ear. 
The  ramparts  were  echoing  with  the  prolonged  roll  of 
drums,  like  the  call  to  arms  in  time  of  war.  Is  his 
liberation  at  hand?     Has  France  a  new  ruler? 

Again  he  lends  a  listening  ear,  and  the  same  noises  10 
recur ;  but  they  mislead  him  no  longer.  The  supposed 
tocsin  is  only  the  church-bell  which  he  has  been  accus- 
tomed to  hear  daily  at  the  same  hour ;  and  the  drums, 
the  usual  evening  signal  for  retreat  to  quarters.  With 
a  bitter  smile  Charney  begins  to  pity  his  own  folly  15 
which  could  mistake  the  insignificant  labors  of  some 
wandering  mole  or  field-mouse  for  the  result  of  human 
fidelity. 

Resolved,  however,  to  bring  the  matter  to  the  test, 
Charney,  bending  over  the  little  hillock,  gently  removed  20 
the  earth  from  its  summit ;  when  he  had  the  mortifi- 
cation to  perceive  that  the  wild  though  momentary 
emotion  by  which  he  had  been  overcome  was  not  pro- 
duced by  so  much  as  the  labors  of  an  animal  armed 
with  teeth  and  claws,  but  by  the  efforts  of  a  feeble  25 
plant  to  pierce  the  soil  —  a  pale  and  sickly  scatterling 
of  vegetation. 

Deeply  vexed,  he  was  about  to  crush  with  his  heel 
the  miserable  weed,  when  a  refreshing   breeze,  laden 


with  the  sweets  of  some  bower  of  honeysuckles  or 
syringas  swept  past,  as  if  to  intercede  for  mercy  toward 
the  poor  plant,  which  might  perhaps  hereafter  reward 
him  with  its  flowers  and  fragrance. 
5  A  new  thought  led  him  to  suspend  his  act  of  ven- 
geance. How  had  this  tender  plant,  so  soft  and  fragile 
as  to  be  crushed  with  a  touch,  contrived  to  pierce  and 
cleave  asunder  the  soil,  daily  trodden  by  his  own  foot- 
steps, and  all  but  cemented  to  the  flags  of  granite  be- 

10  tween  which  it  was  enclosed?  On  stooping  again  to 
examine  the  matter  with  more  attention,  he  observed 
at  the  extremity  of  the  plant  a  sort  of  fleshy  lobe, 
affording  protection  to  its  first  and  tenderest  leaves 
from  the  injurious  contact  of  any  hard  bodies  that  they 

15  might  have  to  encounter  in  penetrating  the  earthy 
crust  in  search  of  light  and  air. 

"  This  then  is  the  secret !  "  cried  he,  already  inter- 
ested in  the  discovery.  "  Nature  has  imparted  strength 
to  the  vegetable  germ,  even  as  the  unfledged  bird  which 

20  is  able  to  break  asunder  with  its  beak  the  eggshell  in 
which  it  is  imprisoned ;  happier  than  myself  —  in  pos- 
session of  instruments  to  secure  its  liberation!  "  And 
after  gazing  another  minute  on  the  inoffensive  plant, 
he  lost  all  inclination  for  its  destruction. 

25  On  resuming  his  walk  the  next  day,  with  wide  and 
careless  steps,  Charney  was  on  the  point  of  setting  his 
foot  on  it,  but  drew  back  in  time.  Amused  to  find 
himself  interested  in  the  preservation  of  a  weed,  he 
paused  to  take  note  of  its  progress.     The  plant  was 


-»e  51  e«- 

strangely  grown,  and  the  free  light  of  day  had  already 
effaced  the  pale  and  sickly  complexion  of  the  preced- 
ing day.  Charney  was  struck  by  the  power  in  plants 
to  absorb  rays  of  light,  and,  strengthened  by  the  nour- 
ishment, to  borrow,  as  it  were,  from  the  prism,  the  very  b 
colors  destined  to  distinguish  its  various  parts. 

"  The  leaves,"  thought  he,  "  will  probably  imbibe  a 
hue  different  from  that  of  the  stem.  And  the  flowers  ? 
what  color,  I  wonder,  will  be  the  flowers  ?  Nourished 
by  the  same  sap  as  the  green  leaves  and  stem,  how  do  10 
they  manage  to  acquire  from  the  influence  of  the  sun 
their  tints  of  azure,  pink,  or  scarlet?  For  already 
their  hue  is  appointed.  But  lo,  the  fleshy  lobes  which 
served  to  facilitate  the  plant's  progress  through  the 
soil,  though  now  useless,  are  feeding  themselves  at  its  is 
expense,  and  weighing  upon  its  slender  stalk." 

Even  as  he  spoke,  daylight  became  obscured.  A 
chilly  spring  evening,  threatening  a  frosty  night,  was 
setting  in ;  and  the  two  lobes,  gradually  rising,  seemed 
to  reproach  him  by  enclosing  the  still  tender  foliage,  20 
which  they  secured  from  the  attacks  of  insects  or  the 
inclemency  of  the  weather  by  the  screen  of  their  pro- 
tecting wings.  In  the  weariness  of  captivity  Charney 
was  soon  satisfied  to  occupy  his  idle  hours  in  observing 
the  changes  in  the  plant.  But  when  he  attempted  to  25 
argue  with  it,  the  answers  of  the  simple  herb  were  too 
much  for  him. 

"  To  what  purpose  these  stiff  bristles,  disfiguring  a 
slender  stem  ?  "  demanded  the  Count..    And  the  follow- 


-»8  52  St- 
ing morning  he  found  them  covered  with  frost;  thanks 
to  their  defence,  the  delicate  bark  had  been  secured 
from  all  contact  with  the  rime. 

"  To  what  purpose,  for  the  summer  season,  this  win- 

5  ter  garment  of  wool  and  down?"  he  again  inquired. 
And  when  the  summer  season  really  breathed  upon 
the  plant,  he  found  the  new  shoots  array  themselves 
in  their  light  spring  clothing,  the  downy  vestments 
being  laid  aside. 

10  "Storms  may  be  impending!"  cried  Charney  with 
a  bitter  smile  ;  "  and  how  will  these  slender  and  flex- 
ible shoots  resist  the  cutting  hail,  the  driving  wind?" 
But  when  the  stormy  rain  arose  and  the  winds  blew, 
the  slender  plant,  yielding  to  their  force,  replied  to  the 

is  sneers  of  the  Count  by  prudent  prostration.  Against 
the  hail  it  fortified  itself  in  a  different  way ;  the  leaves, 
rapidly  uprising,  clung  to  the  stalks  for  protection, 
presenting  to  the  attacks  of  the  enemy  the  strength  of 
their  under   surface;    and   union,  as  usual,  produced 

20  strength.  Firmly  closed  together  they  defied  the  pelt- 
ing shower,  and  the  plant  remained  the  master  of  the 
field. 

Count  Charney  delighted  in  watching   day  by  day 
the  constant  changes  of   the  plant.     Even  after  his 

25  return  to  his  cell  he  often  watched  the  little  solitary 
through  his  prison  bars.  One  morning,  as  he  stood  at 
the  window,  he  saw  the  jailer,  who  was  rapidly  cross- 
ing the  courtyard,  pass  so  close  to  it  that  the  stem 
seemed  on  the  point  of  being  crushed  under  his  feet. 


-»8  53  8<- 

The  Count  actually  shuddered!  When  Ludovico,  the 
jailer,  arrived  with  his  breakfast,  Charney  inquired 
after  his  little  boy,  and,  taking  from  his  box  a  small 
gilt  goblet,  charged  him  to  present  it  to  the  child. 

Ludovico  refused  the  gift ;  but  Charney  resolved  to  5 
persevere.  "  I  am  aware  that  a  toy,  a  rattle,  a  flower 
would  be  a  present  better  suited  to  Antonio's  age ;  but 
you  can  sell  the  goblet  and  buy  those  trifles  with  the 
money.  And  lo !  speaking  of  flowers,"  —  the  Count 
made  his  plea.  10 

"  Sir  Count,"  replied  the  jailer,  "  keep  your  goblet. 
Were  this  pretty  bauble  missing  from  your  case  its 
companions  might  fret  after  it;  and  with  respect  to 
your  gillyflower  "  — 

"Is    it   a   gillyflower ? "    interrupted   Charney  with  is 
eagerness. 

"  How  should  I  know  ?     All  flowers  are  more  or  less 
gillyflowers.     But  as  to  sparing  the  life  of  yours,  me- 
thinks  the  request  comes  late  in  the  day.     My  boot 
would  have  been  better  acquainted  with  it  long  ago,  20 
had  I  not  perceived  your  affection  for  the  weed." 

"  Oh,  as  to  my  partiality,"  interrupted  Charney,  "  I 
beg  to  assure  you  "  — 

"  Tut,  tut !  What  need  of  assurance  ?  "  cried  Ludo- 
vico. "  Men  must  have  something  to  love ;  and  state  25 
prisoners  have  little  choice.  Some  amuse  themselves 
with  rearing  linnets  and  goldfinches;  others  have  a 
fancy  for  white  mice.  For  my  part,  poor  souls !  I  have 
this  much  respect  for  their  pets  —  that  I  had  a  fine 


-»6  54  &- 

Angora  cat  of  my  own,  with  long  silken  hair  —  you  'd 
have  sworn  it  was  a  muff  when  it  was  asleep !  —  a  cat 
that  my  wife  doted  on,  to  say  nothing  of  myself. 
Well,  I  gave  it  away,  lest  the  creature  should  take  a 
5  fancy  to  some  of  their  favorites.  All  the  cats  in  crea- 
tion ought  not  to  weigh  against  so  much  as  a  mouse 
belonging  to  a  captive !  " 

Charney  became  daily  more  attached  to  the  object 
of  his  care,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  th£  plant 

10  expand  and  acquire  new  beauties  every  hour.  "  If  it 
would  but  flower !  "  he  frequently  exclaimed.  "  What 
a  delight  to  hail  the  opening  of  its  first  blossom !  a  blos- 
som whose  beauty,  whose  fragrance  will  be  developed 
for  the  sole  enjoyment  of  my  eager  senses.     What  will 

15  be  its  color,  I  wonder  ?  what  the  form  of  its  petals  ? 
Time  will  show.    How  I  long  for  the  moment !    Bloom, 

.  Picciola !  bloom,  and  reveal  yourself  in  all  your  beauty 
to  him  to  whom  you  are  indebted  for  the  preservation 
of  your  life !  " 

20  Picciola  [poor  little  thing]  was  the  name,  borrowed 
from  the  lips  of  Ludovico,  which  Charney  had  bestowed 
upon  his  favorite. 

Returning  one  morning  to  the  accustomed  spot,  the 
Count's  eyes  were  suddenly  attracted  toward  a  shoot  of 

25  unusual  form  gracing  the  principal  stem  of  the  plant. 
He  felt  the  beating  of  his  heart  accelerated,  and, 
ashamed  of  his  weakness,  the  color  rose  to  his  cheek 
as  he   stooped    to  examine  it.     The  spherical    shape, 


-»8   55   &- 

covered  with  glossy  scales,  announced  a  bud  !    Eureka ! 
—  a  flower  must  be  at  hand  ! 

One  evening,  after  his  customary  visit  to  Picciola,  an 
attack  of  faintness  overpowered  him ;  he  threw  himself 
on  the  bed,  with  aching  brows  and  shivering  limbs.  5 
He  fancied  sleep  would  restore  him.  But  instead  of 
sleep  came  pain  and  fever ;  and  on  the  morrow,  when 
he  tried  to  rise,  an  influence  stronger  than  his  will 
held  him  to  his  pallet,  and  there  he  remained  for  many 
days.  10 

As  the  convalescence  of  the  Count  proceeded,  he  was 
seated  one  morning  in  his  chamber,  when  the  door  was 
suddenly  burst  open,  and  Ludovico,  with  a  radiant 
countenance,  rushed  into  the  room. 

"  Victory !  "  cried  he.     "  The  creature  is  in  bloom !  15 
Picciola !  Picciola !  " 

"  In  bloom !  "  cried  Charney,  starting  up.  "  Let  me 
see  her —     I  must  see  the  blossom." 

In  vain  did  the  jailer  implore  the  Count  to  delay  the 
undertaking  for  a  day  or  two.     Charney  was  deaf  to  20 
all  remonstrance.     He  consented  only  to  wait  an  hour, 
in  order  that  the  sun  might  become  one  of  the  party. 

At  the  appointed  moment  Ludovico  reappeared,  to 
offer  the  Count  de  Charney  the  support  of  his  arm 
down  the  steep  steps  of  the  stone  staircase.  25 

The  enchantress  had,  indeed,  attired  herself  in  all 
her  charms !  Her  brilliantly  streaked  corolla,  in  which 
crimson,  pink,  and  white  were  blended,  her  large  trans- 
parent petals,  bordered  by  a  little,  silvery  fringe,  ex- 


^9  5B8^ 

ceeded  the  utmost  anticipations  of  the  Count  as  he 
gazed  with  delight  upon  it.  He  was  filled  with  love 
and  admiration  for  the  delicate  thing,  whose  fragrance 
and  beauty  breathed  enchantment.     But  he  was  soon 

5  startled  from  his  revery.  The  Count  noticed  for  the 
first  time  traces  of  mutilation  —  branches  half  cut 
away,  and  faded  leaves  wounded  by  some  sharp  instru- 
ment.    Tears  started  to  his  eyes. 

"  Come,  come,  compose   yourself ! "    said   Ludovico. 

10  "  Picciola,  the  stout-hearted  little  weed,  brought  you 
out  of  your  'illness.  Did  not  the  three  humbugs  pro- 
nounce you  to  be  dying?  I  snipped  off  enough  of 
these  leaves  for  a  strong  infusion,  and  a  single  cup 
of  it  acted  like  a  charm.     'T  is  a  recipe  that  I  mean 

15  to  keep  as  the  apple  of  my  eye ;  and  if  ever  poor  little 
Antonio  should  fall  ill,  he  shall  drink  broths  of  this 
herb.  Though  her  foliage  is  a  little  thinner,  I've  a 
notion  the  plant  will  not  suffer  from  thinning.  Picciola 
will,  perhaps,  be  the  better  for  the  job,  as  well  as  her 

20  master." 

Charney  gazed  once  more  at  the  object  of  his  care ; 
but  instead  of  admiration  for  the  delicate  lines  and  the 
perfume  of  those  expanding  blossoms,  he  experienced 
only  gratitude  for  the  gift  of  life.     He  beheld  a  bene- 

26  f actress  in  Picciola. 


->8  57  8«~ 

THE    BATTLE    AT    MANILA. 
THOMAS  J.  VIVIAN. 

Part  I. 

When  we  arrived  off  Subig  Bay  on  the  afternoon  of 
Saturday,  April  30,  1898,  the  Commodore  called  the 
commanding  officers  of  the  ships  over  to  his  cabin  and 
outlined  to  them  his  plan  of  attack. 

He  told  them  he  had  every  reason  to  believe  that  the  5 
Spaniards  were  in  Manila  Bay,  and  that  his  purpose  was 
to  carry  out  the  President's  instructions  and  destroy 
their  fleet.  We  were  told  that  the  first  thing  was  to 
slip  into  the  bay,  and  if  possible  to  pass  the  shore  forts 
without  drawing  their  fire.  io 

Sunday  morning  came  on  still  and  hot,  and  before 
dawn  the  fleet  steamed  slowly  into  the  harbor.  First 
went  the  flagship  "Olympia,"  then  the  "  Baltimore," 
then  the  "Kaleigh,"  next  the  "Petrel,"  following  her 
the  "Concord,"  and  last  the  "Boston."  After  the  15 
fighting  fleet  came  the  supply  ships. 

As  we  rounded  out  beyond  the  last  point  before 
reaching  the  entrance,  we  saw  the  lights  of  the  great 
cone  of  Corregidor  burning  bright  and  still,  but  saw 
nothing  in  the  shape  of  a  searchlight.  Every  man  was  20 
called  up  and  ordered  to  wash  and  take  a  cup  of  coffee. 
While  this  light  and  early  refreshment  was  being  served 
all  the  ships'  lights  were  extinguished,  except  those  on 
the  taffrail,  and  these  were  hooded.     So  we  crept  along 


^58  9<- 

until  we   came   into   the    channel,   moving   in   single 
file. 

In  that  still  air  it  seemed  absolutely  impossible  for  us 
to  escape  the  attention  of  the  entrance  forts,  yet  we 

5  would  all  have  been  inside  —  squadron,  supply  ships, 
and  convoy  —  without  the  Spanish  fleet  receiving  the 
faintest  intimation  of  our  approach  if  it  had  not  been 
for  an  enthusiastic  fireman.  Throwing  open  the  fur- 
nace doors,  he  ladled  in  a  few  shovelfuls  of  soft  coal. 

10  Up  from  the  smokestack  of  the  cutter  went  a  great 
shower  of  sparks. 

Some  minutes  elapsed  before  out  of  the  west  there 
came  a  bugle  call,  then  a  flash,  and  then  the  rolling  boom 
of  a  great  gun. 

15  Twice  more  the  battery  spoke,  and  with  the  third 
shot  there  came  a  crack  from  the  "Concord,"  and  we 
knew  that  our  first  shot  had  gone  out  in  the  shape  of 
a  four-inch  shell.  Then  still  further  back  of  us  the 
"  Boston  "  sent  in  an  eight-inch  shell,  and  still  further 

20  to  the  rear  the  "  Mc  Culled!"  sounded  a  few  of  her 
four-pounders. 

The  batteries  kept  on  flashing  and  booming  a  few 
minutes  longer,  and  then  became  as  silent  as  they  were 
before  we  had  steamed  up. 

25  As  soon  as  we  had  passed  the  batteries  at  the  har- 
bor mouth  we  slowed  down,  until  it  seemed  as  though 
we  were  almost  at  a  standstill.  The  Commodore  was 
talking  in  an  undertone  to  the  rebel  Filippino  who 
was  acting  as  pilot;   I  could  see  the  figures  of  the 


-»6  59  8<- 

men  standing  silently  at  their  posts  up  and  down  the 
ship ;  and  looking  over  her  sides  I  could  distinguish  no 
line  of  demarcation  between  the  dull  gray  of  the  vessels 
and  the  dark  waters  of  the  bay  through  which  we  were 
so  slowly  slipping.  5 

This  creeping,  creeping,  creeping,  with  invisible  mines 
below  us  and  an  invisible  fleet  ahead,  was  a  test  out  of 
which  no  man  came  without  a  sigh  of  relief.  We  were 
all  keyed  up,  but  it  was  not  long  before  the  fighting 
string  in  every  man's  heart  was  "twanging  and  singing  10 
like  that  of  a  taut  bow. 

As  is  the  fashion  of  nature  in  these  parts,  the  dawn 
turned  as  suddenly  into  day  as  though  a  curtain  had 
been  torn   down  from  the    sunlight,  and  there  right 
ahead  of  us  lay  the  Spanish  fleet  tucked  up  under  the  15 
forts  of  Cavite*. 

Commodore  Dewey's  fleet  consisted  of  seven  vessels, 
exclusive  of  the  transports.     There  were  four  cruisers, 
two    gunboats,    one   cutter,   fifty-seven    classified   big 
guns,  seventy-four  rapid  firers  and  machine  guns,  and  20 
one  thousand  eight  hundred  and  eight  men. 

Against  us  were  pitted  seven  cruisers,  five  gunboats, 
two  torpedo  boats,  fifty-two  classified  big  guns,  eighty- 
three  rapid  firers  and  machine  guns,  and  one  thousand 
nine  hundred  and  forty-eight  men.  25 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  we  had  a  greater  number 
of  heavy  guns  and  that  our  ships  were  of  modern  con- 
struction, nor  must  it  be  overlooked  that  the  Spanish 
fleet  was  much  more  numerous,  and  that  it  had  the 


-»8  60  9«- 

immense  assistance  of  protecting  forts  manned  with 
strong  garrisons  and  mounting  an  unknown  number 
of  guns,  of  whose  caliber  and  force  we  had  been  told 
most  terrifying  things. 

5  As  we  passed  on  the  eastward  curve  before  actually 
beginning  the  engagement,  our  lookouts  reported  that 
Admiral  Montojo's  flag  was  flying  on  the  cruiser  "  Reina 
Cristina."  They  reported  also  that  the  Spaniards  ap- 
peared  to   be   protected   by   a   sort   of   roughly   con- 

10  structed  boom  of  logs. 

As  we  steamed  slowly  along  then,  after  dropping  the 
supply  ships,  there  came  a  flash  of  flame  and  a  boom 
from  the  bastions  of  Cavite,  followed  immediately  by 
another  flame  and  a  sharper  report  from  one  of  the 

15  Spanish  flagship's  modern  guns.  Both  shots  dropped 
somewhere  in  the  bay,  and  our  only  answer  was  in 
sending  up  a  string  of  flags  bearing  the  code  watch- 
word, "  Remember  the  '  Maine ' !  " 

On  steamed  the  fleet,  with  every  gun  loaded  and 

20  every  man  at  his  post ;  but  not  a  lanyard  was  pulled. 
Even  the  Spaniards  at  Cavite  ceased  firing  as  we 
moved  down  toward  Manila.  As  we  rounded  past 
the  city's  water-front,  with  about  four  miles  of  blue 
water  between  us  and  it,  we  could  with  our  glasses 

25  make  out  the  city  walls,  church  towers,  and  other 
high  places,  crowded  with  sight-seers.  As  we  turned 
from  Manila,  the  Commodore  said  something  about  the 
picturesqueness  of  the  city,  adding  that  the  blue  hills 
at  the  back  of  the  town  reminded  him  of  those  of  Ver- 


-»6  61  8**- 

mont.  It  was  most  unaffectedly  said,  and  was  no  more 
tinged  with  bravado  than  was  Captain  Wildes's  use  of 
a  palm-leaf  fan  during  the  engagement. 

As  we  headed  toward  the  Spanish  fleet,  their  gunners 
and  those  of  the  forts  began  a  right  merry  fusillade.  5 
With  all  this  thundering  and  snapping  of  the  Span- 
iards, however,  there  was  no  answer  from  us.  Up 
went  the  signal,  "Hold  your  fire  until  close  in,"  and 
on  went  the  squadron.  Suddenly  something  happened. 
Close  off  the  bow  of  the  "  Baltimore "  there  came  a  10 
shaking  of  the  bay  and  a  geyser  of  mud  and  water. 
Then  right  ahead  of  the  "  Raleigh  "  came  another  ugly 
fountain  of  harbor  soil  and  water. 

We  were  among  the  mines  at  last. 

But  we  did  not  strike  any.  These  two  upheavals  15 
marked  the  extent  of  our  experience  with  the  "  terri- 
ble mines"  of  Manila  Bay.  The  Commodore,  his  chief 
of  staff,  Commander  Lamberton,  the  executive  officer, 
Lieutenant  Reese,  and  the  navigator  were  on  the  for- 
ward bridge.  Captain  Gridley  was  in  the  conning  20 
tower.  With  a  glance  at  the  shore  the  Commodore 
turned  to  the  officer  next  to  him  and  said :  "  About 
five  thousand  yards  I  should  say;  eh,  Reese?" 

"  Between  that  and  six  thousand,  I  should  think, 
sir,"  Reese  answered.  25 

The  Commodore  then  leaned  over  the  railing  and 
called  out :  — 

"  When  you  are  ready  you  may  fire,  Gridley." 

Instantly  the  floor  of  the  bridge  sprang  up  beneath 


-»6  62  g«- 

our  feet  as  the  port  eight-inch  gun  of  our  forward 
turret  gave  its  introductory  roar.  Our  first  aim 
was  at  the  center  of  the  Spanish  fleet,  the  "  Olympia's  " 
shot  being  particularly  directed,  as  a  sort  of  interna- 

5  tional  mark  of  courtesy,  to  the  "Reina  Cristina." 

As  our  turret  gun  rang  out,  the  "Baltimore"  and 
"  Boston  "  took  up  the  chorus,  their  forward  guns  pitch- 
ing in  two-hundred-and-fifty-pound  shells.  The  reply 
of  the  Spaniards  was  simply  terrific.     Their  ship  and 

10  shore  guns  seemed  to  unite  in  one  unending  snap  and 
roar,  while  the  scream  of  their  shot,  the  bursting  of 
shells,  made  up  a  din  that  was  as  savage  as  it  was 
unceasing.  It  was,  however,  but  as  the  scraping  of 
fiddle  strings  to  the  blare  and  crash  of  a  full  orchestra 

15  when  compared  with  that  which  was  to  follow. 

One  wailing,  shrieking  shell  was  making  straight  for 
the  "  Olympia's  "  forward  bridge  when  it  exploded  about 
a  hundred  feet  in  front  of  us,  one  fragment  sawing  the 
rigging  just  over  our  heads.     Another  fragment  chis- 

20  elled  a  long  splinter  from  the  deck  just  under  where 
the  Commodore  stood  ;  a  third  smashed  the  bridge  grat- 
ings, and  all  around  and  about  and  above  us  there  was 
the  sputter  and  shriek  and  roar  of  projectiles. 

But   the   miracle    was   that   none   of    us   was   hit. 

25  Through  this  hail  of  miraculously  impotent  steel  we 
steered  until  within  a  distance  of  four  thousand  yards 
of  the  Spanish  column. 

"  Open  with  all  the  guns,"  said  the  Commodore ;  and 
they  were  opened.     That  is,  all  on  the  port  broadside. 


-*6  63  8«- 

By  the  time  the  last  ship  had  passed  the  Spaniards,  the 
"  Olympia "  had  swung  around  on  her  return  line  of 
attack,  and  once  more  we  were  steaming  past  Montojo 
with  our  starboard  guns  flaming,  roaring,  spitting,  and 
smoking  as  we  went.     As  we  passed,  the  batteries  on    s 
shore  and  the  Spanish  batteries .  afloat  banged  away  at 
us,  fighting  gallantly  and  furiously.      One  shot  went 
clean  through  the  "Baltimore,"  but  hit  no  one.     An- 
other cut  the  signal  halyards  from  Lieutenant  Brum-  • 
by's  hands  on  the  after  bridge.     Another  shell  passed  10 
through  the  "Boston's"  foremast,  not  far  from  where 
Captain  Wildes  was,  on  the  bridge. 

End  of  Part  I. 


-»e  64  6<- 

BATTLE  HYMN   OF   THE   REPUBLIC. 

JULIA  WARD  HOWE. 

Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe  was  born  in  New  York  City  on  the 
27th  of  May,  1819.  Her  father,  Mr.  Samuel  Ward,  was  a  well- 
known  banker.  Her  mother  was  a  cultured,  woman  and  was  the 
author  of  several  poems. 
5  The  young  girl  was  carefully  educated,  and  early  showed  a 
t  love  for  literature.  She  read  a  large  share  of  the  books  in  her 
father's  library  and  wrote  verses  during  her  childhood. 

She  was  married  to  Dr.  Samuel  Howe,  who  was  the  superin- 
tendent of  the  Blind  Asylum,  at  Boston,  and  traveled  with  him 
10  through  Europe. 

"Passion  Flowers,"  Mrs.  Howe's  first  volume  of  poems,  was 
published  in  1854,  and  another  collection,  "  Words  for  the  Hour," 
appeared  two  years  later. 

Her  "Battle  Hymn"  was  published  with  other  poems  in  a 
15  book  entitled  "  Later  Lyrics." 

Mrs.  Howe  resides  in  Boston,  and  is  actively  engaged  in  writ- 
ing and  lecturing. 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the 

Lord: 
He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes  of 

wrath  are  stored; 
He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  his  terrible 

swift  sword  ; 

His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a  hundred  cir- 
cling camps  ; 


-»e  65  e<- 

They  have  builded  him  an  altar  in  the  evening  dews 
and  damps; 

I  can  read  his  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and  flar- 
ing lamps. 

His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel,  writ  in  burnished  rows  of 

steel : 
"As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with  you  my, 

grace  shall  deal; 
Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the  serpent  with 

his  heel, 

Since  God  is  marching  on." 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never 
call  retreat; 

He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  his  judg- 
ment-seat ; 

Oh,  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  him !  be  jubilant,  my 
feet! 

Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born,  across  the 

sea, 
With  a  glory  in  his  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and 

me  ; 
As  he  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men 

free, 

While  God  is  marching  on. 


-*8  66  8*- 

THE   BATTLE  AT  MANILA. 
THOMAS  J.   VIVIAN. 

Part  II. 

It  was  on  the  third  turn  that  the  great  naval  duel 
between  the  two  flagships  took  place. 

When  we  sighted  the  Spanish  fleet,  I  remarked  that 
the  enemy  seemed  to  have  no  steam  up,  and  that  the 

5  fleet  seemed  to  lie  behind  a  breakwater.  As  we  came 
closer  to  them,  however,  we  saw  more  clearly  the 
scheme  of  their  order.  Put  out  your  right  hand  with 
the  thumb  extended;  call  the  thumb  the  Cavite  spit, 
and  the  space  between  the  thumb  and  the  forefinger 

10  Cavite  Bay.  Manila  lies  about  where  the  nail  of  the 
forefinger  is.  The  town  of  Cavite  lies  in  the  pocket  of 
the  thumb  and  forefinger,  and  the  thumb's  nail  stands 
for  the  main  Cavite  batteries,  four  in  number.  Put  a 
pencil  halfway  across  from  the  thumb's  nail  to  the  first 

15  joint  of  the  forefinger,  and  it  will  stand  for  the  Cavite* 
arsenal  with  its  boom  extension.  Behind  this  boom 
lay  the  gunboats  of  the  Spanish  fleet,  while  in  front  of 
it,  facing  Manila  Bay,  were  the  Spanish  cruisers. 

They  lay  anchored  while  we   made   our  first   and 

20  second  parallels  of  attack,  but  by  the  time  we  were 
sweeping  up  on  the  third  course  the  smoke  poured 
out  of  the  "  Reina  Cristina's  "  smokestacks ;  there  was 
a  fleece  of  white  gathered  about  the  steam  pipe,  and 


-»8  68  8«- 

the  flagship  moved  out  to  the  attack.  She  gallantly 
stood  for  the  "  Olympia,"  and  it  looked  as  though  it  were 
her  intention  to  ram  us.  The  Commodore  passed  the 
word  to  concentrate  all  possible  fire  on  the  "  Reina  Cris- 

5  tina,"  and  she  actually  shivered  under  the  battering  of 
our  storm  of  shot  and  shell.  Rents  appeared  near  her 
water-line  where  the  eight-inch  shells  had  torn  their 
way.  One  shot  struck  the  port  bridge  on  which  Ad- 
miral Montojo  stood,  upon  which,  like  the  brave  man 

10  he  was,  the  Admiral  coolly  stepped  to  the  other  end. 

But  no  bravery  could  stand  the  driving,  crushing, 

rending  of  the  tons  of  steel  which  we  poured  into  the 

"  Cristina,"  and  there  was  quite  a  little  cheer  from  our 

forward  men  as  the  Spanish  flagship  slowly  turned  and 

is  made  for  the  shore. 

In  the  whole  duel  between  the  "  Cristina  "  and  the 
"  Olympia  "  sixty  of  the  Spanish  crew  were  killed,  in- 
cluding the  chaplain  and  the  first  lieutenant.  It  was 
small  wonder  she  retreated.     It  was  during  the  fright- 

20  ful  hubbub  of  the  duel  between  the  Admiral  and  the 
Commodore  that  two  gunboats  crept  out  from  be- 
hind the  Cavite*  pier  and  started  in  to  do  desperate 
deeds.  One  stole  out  along  the  shore,  then  turned  and 
made  for  the  supply  ships,  while  the  other  headed  for 

25  the  "  Olympia." 

The  "Petrel"  was  sent  after  the  first,  and  after  a 
sharp  bark  or  two  from  her  four-pounders,  the  Spaniard 
evidently  gave  up  the  job  and  made  for  the  shore.  The 
"  Petrel "  made  after  her,  and  while  the  Spanish  crew 


-»B  69  8<- 

clambered  over  their  boat's  sides  and  on  to  the  beach 
and  up  into  the  underbrush,  the  "Petrel"  turned  her 
rapid-fire  guns  on  their  craft  and  literally  blew  her  to 
pieces. 

The  other  torpedo  boat,  which  was  bound  to  destroy   5 
our  flagship,  made  a  better  fight.     Our  secondary  bat- 
tery was  concentrated  on  her,  but   still  she  kept  on 
until  within  five   hundred   yards,  and   matters   were 
beginning  to  look  serious  for  us.     Then  the  machine 
guns  in  the  tops  began  to  treat  her  to  a  hailstorm,  10 
and  this  proved  too  much  for  this  representative  of 
Spanish  naval  daring.     She  turned,  and  as  she  did  so 
a  shell  struck  her  just  inside  the  stern  railing,  exploded, 
and  the  gunboat  dipped  suddenly  in  the  middle ;  her 
stern  and  bow  rose  as   suddenly  in  the  air,  and  she  is 
disappeared. 

After  passing  five  times  in  front  of  the  enemy, 
the  men  having  been  at  their  blazing  work  for  two 
uninterrupted  hours,  the  Commodore  concluded  that  it 
would  be  well  to  call  a  halt.  20 

"What  time  is  it,  Reese?"  asked  the  Commodore. 

"  Seven  forty-five,  sir." 

"  Breakfast  time,"  said  the  Commodore  with  an  odd 
smile ;  "  run  up  the  signals  for  '  cease  firing '  and  follow 
me."  25 

With  that  the  "  Olympia's  "  bows  were  set  for  a  run 
to  the  eastern  side  of  the  bay  where  the  store  ships  lay. 
As  we  swung  out,  the  Spaniards  gave  a  cheer.  They 
possibly  imagined  as  they  saw  our  line  forming  to  with- 


-»6  70  3<- 

.  draw,  that  the  fight  was  over.  So,  too,  might  the 
Manila  gunners  on  the  Luneta  fort  have  done,  for  as 
we  passed  them  they  let  fly  with  their  Krupp  guns. 
"No  reply,  I  suppose,  sir?"  said  Lamberton,  looking 
5  meaningly  over  to  the  forward  turret,  while  the  men 
at  the  five-inch  guns  were  cocking  their  eyes  inquisi- 
tively up  at  the  bridge. 

"  Oh,  no/'  said  the  Commodore ;  "  let  them  amuse 
themselves  if  they  will.     We  shall  have  plenty  of  op- 
10  portunity  to  burn  powder.     We  haven't  begun  fight- 
ing yet." 

No  sooner  had  we  reached  the  anchorage  ground 
beside  the  transport  ships  than  the  Commodore  called 
all  the  commanders  on  board  to  report.     Then  it  was 
15  that  the  wonder  of  it  came  to  pass. 
Not  a  ship  disabled  ! 
Not  a  gun  out  of  order ! 
Not  a  man  killed  ! 
Not  a  man  injured ! 
20      It  seemed  incredible  that  this  should  have  been  the 
result  to  us  in  that  awful  two  hours'  fight,  while  to  the 
Spaniards  it  had  meant  such" destruction  and  desolation. 
Captain  after   captain  reported  the  same  astounding 
news  to  the  Commodore. 
25      The  Commodore  had  decided  on  three  hours'  rest, 
and  this  being  ample  time  for  all  the  preparatory  work 
needed,  there  was  no  hurry.     First  of  all,  all  hands 
were  piped  to  breakfast,  and  while  I  am  not  historian 
enough  to  have  the  details  of  every  great  combat  at  my 


-»8  71   8«- 

pen's  point,  it  strikes  me  that  this  deliberate  hauling 
off  and  sitting  down  to  breakfast  in  the  middle  of  a 
sea-fight,  stands  as  a  situation  unique  in  the  chronicles 
of  maritime  warfare. 

The  programme  for  the  second  act  was  that  we  were  5 
to  finish  up  the  enemy's  fleet,  taking  one  ship  after 
another,  and  then  attend  to  the  forts.  Again  we  sailed 
around  to  the  .Manila  channel;  and  as  we  drew  near 
the  Spaniards  we  saw  that  the  "Cristina,"  the  "Cas- 
tilla,"  and  the  transport  "Mindanao,"  which  latter  had  10 
been  beached  about  midway  between  Cavite'  and  Manila, 
were  all  ablaze,  and  that  their  crews  were  as  busy  as  so 
many  ants,  trying  to  put  out  the  flames. 

The  condition  of  the  Spanish  flagship  was  most  piti- 
able, and  before  we  had  commenced  firing  the  second  15 
time  we  saw  Admiral  Montojo  transferring   his   flag 
from  the  " Cristina"  to  the  "Isla  de  Cuba." 

The  "Baltimore"  headed  for  the  "Cristina"  and 
"Austria."  As  she  came  within  range  she  caught  all 
of  the  Spanish  fire  that  was  left  on  board  those  two  20 
ships.  It  seemed  that  in  their  desperation  the  Span- 
iards fired  better  at  this  time  than  they  had  in  the 
earlier  morning,  for  one  of  the  foreigners'  shells  ex- 
ploded on  the  "Baltimore's"  deck,  wounding  five  men 
with  the  splinters.  No  reply  came  from  the  "  Balti-  25 
more." 

A  few  minutes  passed  and  another  shell  landed  on 
the  "  Baltimore's  "  decks,  and  three  other  men  were  hit. 
Still  the  "Baltimore"  did  not  reply.     Shells  plunged 


-*Q  72  &- 

about  her  until  she  seemed  ploughing  through  a  park 
of  fountains.  Then,  when  she  reached  about  a  three- 
thousand-yard  range,  she  swung  and  poured  a  broadside 
into  the  "Reina  Cristina." 

5  The  smoke  clouds  hid  everything  for  a  minute  or 
two,  but  when  they  lifted  we  saw  the  "  Cristina  "  blow 
up,  and  the  waters  about  her  beaten  with  a  rain  of 
descending  fragments  and  men.  When  the  rain  of  her 
fragments  had  ceased  the  " Cristina"  settled  and  sank, 

10  the  remainder  of  her  crew  jumping  overboard  and 
swimming  for  the  nearest  consort. 

The  "Baltimore"  then  turned  her  attention  to  the 
"Don  Juan  de  Austria,"  the  "  Olympia"  and  "RaleigV' 
steaming  up  to  complete  the  destruction  in  as  mercifully 

is  brief  a  time  as  possible.  The  three  cruisers  poured  a 
continuous  stream  of  deadly  steel  into  the  Spaniard, 
which  rocked  under  the  smashing. 

The  Spaniard  replied  as  best  she  could,  but  in  the 
midst  of  it  all  there  came  a  roar  that  drowned  all  pre- 

20  vious  noises.  A  shell  had  struck  the  Spaniard's  maga- 
zine and  exploded  it.  Up  shot  the  "Austria's  "  decks  in 
the  flaming  volcano,  and  so  terrific  was  the  explosion 
that  the  flying  fragments  of  the  cruiser  actually  tore 
away  all  the  upper  works  of  the  gunboat  which  lay 

25  beside  her. 

The  cruisers  u  Velasco  "  and  "  Castilla  "  were  the  next 
of  the  enemy's  ships  to  be  wiped  out. 

Every  ship  in  the  Spanish  fleet,  with  one  exception, 
fought  most  valiantly,  but  to  the  "Don  Antonio  de 


h8  73  8«- 

Ulloa',  and  her  commander  Robion  should  be  given  the 
palm  for  that  sort  of  desperate  courage  and  spirit  which 
leads  a  man  to  die  fighting.  Shot  after  shot  struck  the 
Spaniard's  hull,  until  it  was  riddled  like  a  sieve.  Shell 
after  shell  swept  her  upper  decks,  until  under  the  awful  5 
fire  all  of  her  upper  guns  were  useless  ;  but  there  was 
no  sign  of  surrender.  The  main  deck  crew  escaped, 
but  the  captain  and  his  officers  clung  to  their  wreck. 
On  the  lower  deck  her  gun  crews  stuck  to  their  posts 
like  the  heroes  they  were.  10 

As  shot  after  shot  struck  the  shivering  hulk,  and 
still  her  lower  guns  answered  back  as  best  they  could, 
it  seemed  as  though  it  were  impossible  to  kill  her.  At 
last  we  noticed  that  sickening,  unmistakable  lurch  of  a 
sinking  ship.  Her  commander  noticed  it  too;  still  15 
there  was  no  surrender.  He  nailed  the  Spanish  ensign 
to  what  was  left  of  the  mast,  and  the  "  Don  Antonio  de 
Ulloa"  went  down,  not  only  with  her  colors  flying,  but 
also  with  her  lower  guns  still  roaring  defiance.  It  was 
a  brave  death,  and  I  am  sure  every  man  in  the  squad-  20 
ron  would  like  to  have  shaken  Commander  Robion  by 
the  hand. 

As  the  firing  grew  faster  and  more  furious,  and  the 
smoke  settled  down  again,  it  was  again  almost  impossi- 
ble to  distinguish  exact  and  particular  acts.  Ship  atter  25 
ship  was  sunk  or  burned,  until  poor  old  Admiral  Mon- 
tojo,  seeing  but  the  shattered  and  blackened  remnants 
of   his   fleet,   hauled   down    his   colors   and,   together 


with  the  surviving  Spaniards,  hastily  escaped  from  the 
sinking  and  burning  hulk,  Admiral  and  officers  alike 
leaving  behind  them  all  their  personal  property  and 
valuables. 
5  One  after  the  other  of  the  shore  batteries  was  settled, 
and  then  at  12.45  came  the  final  blow.  The  bastions 
of  the  Cavite*  forts  had  been  crumbling  under  the  shells 
of  the  "Boston,"  "Baltimore,"  and  "Concord,"  while 
the  "Raleigh,"  "Olympia,"  and  "Petrel"  had  been  de- 
10  voting  themselves  to  the  reduction  of  the  arsenal. 

After  half  an  hour's  fight  of  this  sort  the  Cavite 
gunners  evidently  became  demoralized  and  began  to 
fire  wildly.  Those  guns  left  in  position  continued  fir- 
ing, however,  until  at  their  back  there  was  a  thunder- 
is  ous  roar,  followed  by  a  heart-shaking  concussion.  A 
shell  had  landed  in  the  arsenal  magazine.  With  the 
upward  rush  of  flames,  fragments,  and  dead,  the  heart 
of  the  Spaniard  went  out  of  him,  a  white  flag  was  run 
up  at  the  Cavite*  citadel,  and  the  battle  of  Manila  was 
20  over. 

Again  the  commanders  were  called  over  to  the  flag- 
ship. Again  came  the  reports :  not  a  gun  overthrown  ! 
not  a  vessel  disabled !  not  a  man  killed  ! 

From  "  With  Dewey  at  Manila.'1'' 


-»6   75   8»- 

THE    MOONLIGHT    MARCH. 
REGINALD  HEBER. 

Reginald  Heber,  an  English  clergyman  and  hymn-writer, 
was  born  in  1783.     He  was  appointed  Bishop  of  Calcutta  in  1823. 

His  devotion  to  his  work  and  the  trying  climate  were  too  great 
a  strain  upon  his  health,  and  he  died  on  the  3d  of  April,  1826. 

Bishop  Heber's  hymns  are  among  the  finest  and  best  known 
in  the  English  language. 

I  see  them  on  their  winding  way, 
About  their  ranks  the  moonbeams  play ; 
Their  lofty  deeds  and  daring  high 
Blend  with  the  notes  of  victory ; 
And  waving  arms  and  banners  bright 
Are  glowing  in  the  mellow  light. 

They  're  lost  and  gone  ;  the  moon  is  past, 
The  woods'  dark  shade  is  o'er  them  cast ; 
And  fainter,  fainter,  fainter  still 
The  march  is  rising  o'er  the  hill. 
Again,  again  the  pealing  drum, 
The  clashing  horn  —  they  come,  they  come  ; 
Through  rocky  pass,  o'er  wooded  steep, 
In  long  and  glittering  files  they  sweep ; 
And  nearer,  nearer,  yet  more  near, 
Their  softened  chorus  meets  the  ear. 

Forth,  forth,  and  meet  them  on  their  way ; 
The  trampling  hoofs  brook  no  delay ; 
With  thrilling  fife  and  pealing  drum, 
And  clashing  horn,  they  come,  they  come ! 


-»6  76  8«~ 

A    PERILOUS    ADVENTURE. 

VICTOR  HUGO. 

Victor  Hugo  was  born  in  France,  on  the  26th  of  February, 
1802.     His  father  was  a  general  in  the  French  army. 

Hugo  began  to  devote  himself  to  literary  work  when  he  was 

nineteen.     The  next  year  his  volume  of  "Odes  and  Ballads" 

5  was  published,  and  the  king  of  France  was  so  pleased  with  the 

verses  that  he  conferred  a  pension  of  a  thousand  francs  upon 

the  young  poet. 

He  then  wrote  several  volumes  of  poems  and  romances,  as  well 
as  a  number  of  dramas,  which  created  great  excitement  among 
10  the  political  parties  of  France. 

In  1837  he  was  made  officer  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  and  held 
a  number  of  important  positions  during  the  next  fourteen  years. 
His  writings  and  influence  against  Napoleon  had  created  so 
strong  a  feeling  by  that  time  that  he  was  obliged  to  leave 
15  France  and  take  refuge  in  the  Island  of  Guernsey.  There  he 
remained  for  nearly  twenty  years. 

During  his  exile  he  wrote  a  number  of  books,  among  them 
"Les  Mise'rables,"  one  of  the  greatest  novels  ever  published.  He 
continued  writing  throughout  his  life. 
20  Victor  Hugo  died  on  the  22d  of  May,  1885.  His  last  years 
were  made  happy  by  the  love  and  admiration  of  his  countrymen, 
and  his  death  was  mourned  throughout  the  nation. 

The  old  man  sat  motionless.  For  the  moment  it 
seemed  to  him  that  in  escaping  from  the  sea,  and  in 
25  touching  land,  all  danger  had  vanished.  No  one  knew 
his  name;  he  was  alone,  lost  to  the  enemy,  without  a 
trace  left  behind  him.  He  felt  a  strange  composure. 
A  little  more  and  he  would  have  been  asleep. 


-•6  77  8«- 

Suddenly  he  started  to  his  feet. 

He  was  looking  at  the  steeple  of  Cormeray,  directly 
in  front  of  him  beyond  the  plain.  Something  extraor- 
dinary was  taking  place  in  this  steeple. 

The  belfry  appeared  alternately  open  and  closed  at  reg-  5 
ular  intervals  ;  its  lofty  windows  showed  all  white,  then 
all  black ;  the  sky  could  be  seen  through  it,  then  it  dis- 
appeared ;  a  gleam  of  light  would  come,  then  an  eclipse, 
and  the  opening  and  shutting  followed  each  other  a 
second  apart,  with  the  regularity  of  a  hammer  on  an  10 
anvil.. 

He  looked  at  all  the  steeples  on  the  horizon.  The 
belfries  of  all  the  steeples  were  alternately  black  and 
white.     What  did  this  mean? 

It  meant  that  all  the  bells  were  ringing.  15 

They  were  sounding  the  alarm,  sounding  it  frantic- 
ally, sounding  it  everywhere,  in  all  the  belfries,  in  every 
parish,  in  every  village,  and  not  a  sound  reached  his  ears. 

This  was  owing  to  the  distance,  which  prevented 
the  sounds  from  reaching  so  far,  and  because  of  the  20 
sea  breeze  blowing  from  the  opposite  direction,  which 
carried  all  land  noises  far  away  from  him. 

All  these  bells  madly  calling  from  every  side,  and  at 
the  same  time,  silence ;  nothing  could  be  more  weird. 

Certainly  they  were  after  somebody.  25 

Whom  ? 

This  man  of  steel  shuddered. 

It  could  not  be  he.  No  one  could  have  discovered 
his  coming  ;  he  had  just  landed,  and  he  finally  assured 


-»8  78  9«- 

himself,  by  repeating,  "Surely,  no  one  knows  of  my 
arrival,  and  no  one  knows  my  name." 

For  some  moments  there  had  been  a  slight  sound 
above  and  behind  him.  This  sound  was  like  the  rust- 
5  ling  of  a  leaf  on  a  wind-shaken  tree.  At  first  he  paid 
no  heed  to  it ;  then,  as  the  sound  continued,  he  at  last 
turned  around.  The  wind  was  trying  to  detach  a  large 
placard  pasted  on  the  pillar  above  his  head. 

He  mounted  the  stone  on  which  he  had  been  sitting, 
10  and  placed  his  hand  on  the  corner  of  the  placard  which 
was  flapping  in  the  wind;  a  part  of  the  placard  was 
printed  in  large  letters,  and  there  was  still  enough  day- 
light to  read  them.     He  read  this :  — 

The  French  Republic,  One  and  Indivisible. 

15  We,  Prieur  de  la  Marne,  acting  representative  of  the  people 
for  the  army  of  the  coast  of  Cherbourg,  order :  The  former  Mar- 
quis de  Lantenac,  Viscount  de  Fontenay,  the  so-called  Prince  of 
Brittany,  secretly  landed  on  the  coast  of  Granville,  is  declared  an 
outlaw.     A  price  is  set  on  his  head.     The  sum  of  sixty  thon- 

20  sand  francs  will  be  paid  to  him  who  will  deliver  him  up,  dead  or 

•  alive.     A  battalion  of  the  army  of  the  coast  of  Cherbourg  will  be 

sent  immediately  in  pursuit  of  the  former  Marquis  de  Lantenac. 

The  parishes  are  ordered  to  lend  every  assistance.     Given  at  the 

town  hall  of  Granville,  this  second  day  of  June,  1793.     Signed 

25  Prieur  de  la  Marne. 

The  old  man  pulled  down  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  drew 
his  cloak  closely  up  under  his  chin,  and  went  quickly 
down  the  dune.  It  was  evidently  unsafe  to  remain 
longer  on  this  prominent  summit. 


-h6  79  &- 

The  plain  was  deserted.  It  was  an  hour  when 
there  were  no  passers-by.  He  stopped  behind  a 
thicket,  took  off  his  cloak,  turned  the  hairy  side  of 
his  vest  out,  fastened  his  ragged  cloak  around  his 
neck  again  by  the  cord,  and  started  on  his  way.  s 

"  Where  are  you  going  ? "  said  a  voice. 

He  turned  around. 

A  man  was  there  in  the  thicket,  tall  like  himself, 
old  like  himself,  with  white  hair  like  his  own,  and  with 
garments  more  ragged.     Almost  his  double.     This  man  10 
was  leaning  on  a  long  stick.     He  repeated :  — 

"  I  ask  where  you  are  going." 

"In  the  first  place,  where  am  I?"  he  said  with  an 
almost  haughty  calmness. 

The  man  replied  :  —  15 

"  You  are  in  the  province  of  Tanis.  I  am  its  beggar ; 
you  are  its  lord." 

"I?" 

"  Yes,  you,  sir,  the  Marquis  de  Lantenac." 

The  Marquis  de  Lantenac  —  henceforth  we  shall  call  20 
him  by  his  name — replied  gravely  :  — 

"  You  are  right.     Deliver  me  up." 

The  man  continued:  — 

"  We  are  both  at  home  here  :  you  in  the  castle,  I  in 
the  thicket."  25 

"Make  an  end  of  it.  Do  your  work.  Betray  me," 
said  the  Marquis. 

The  man  pointed  to  the  roof  of  the  farmhouse,  which 
could  be  seen  some  distance  away,  above  the  trees. 


h8  80  8«- 

"  They  are  searching  for  you.     There  is  a  half  bat- 
talion there." 

"Well,"  said  the  Marquis,  "let  us  go  on." 

And  he  took  a  step  in  the  direction  of  the  farm. 
5      The  man  seized  him  by  the  arm. 

"  Do  not  go  there." 

"And  where  would  you  have  me  go ? " 

"  Home  with  me." 

The  Marquis  looked  at  the  beggar. 
10  "  Listen,  Marquis,  my  home  is  not  fine ;  but  it  is  safe. 
A  hut  lower  than  a  cave.  For  a  floor,  a  bed  of  sea- 
weed; for  a  ceiling,  a  roof  of  branches  and  grass. 
Come.  You  would  be  shot  at  the  farm.  With  me 
you  will  go  to  sleep.  You  must  be  tired;  and  to- 
15  morrow  morning  the  Blues  will  march  away,  and  you 
can  go  wherever  you  please." 

The  Marquis  studied  the  man. 

"  And  you  wish  to  save  me  ?  " 

"Yes." 
20      "Why?" 

"Because  I  said:  ' There  is  another  poorer  than  I. 
I  have  the  right  to  breathe,  he  has  not.' " 

"  But  do  you  know  that  a  price  has  been  put  on  my 
head?" 
25      "Yes." 

"  How  did  you  know  ?  " 

"  I  read  the  placard." 

"  Then,  since  you  have  read  the  placard,  you  know  that 
the  man  who  betrays  me  will  win  sixty  thousand  francs." 


-h6  81  &- 

« I  know  it." 

"  Do  you  know  that  sixty  thousand  francs  is  a 
fortune?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  that  the  one  who  will  deliver  me  up  will  make   5 
his  fortune  ?  " 

"  That  is  just  what  I  thought.  When  I  saw  you  I 
said  to  myself :  '  Only  think  of  it,  the  one  who  betrays 
this  very  man  will  win  sixty  thousand  francs  and 
make  his  fortune !     Let  us  hasten  to  conceal  him.'  "        10 

The  Marquis  followed  the  poor  man.  They  entered 
a  thicket.  Here  was  the  beggar's  den.  It  was  a  sort  of 
room  that  a  grand  old  oak  had  let  this  man  have  in  its 
heart.  It  was  hollowed  out  under  its  roots  and  covered 
with  its  branches.  15 

They  stooped,  crept  along  a  little  way,  entered  the 
room  cut  up  into  odd  compartments  by  the  great 
tree-roots,  and  sat  down  on  a  heap  of  seaweed,  which 
served  as  a  bed.  The  space  between  two  roots,  where 
they  entered,  and  which  served  as  a  doorway,  let  in  20 
some  light.  A  reflection  from  the  moon  threw  a  dim 
light  over  the  entrance.  In  a  corner  there  was  a 
jug  of  water,  a  loaf  of  buckwheat  bread,  and  some 
chestnuts. 

They  shared  the  chestnuts;  the  Marquis  added  his  25 
piece  of  biscuit ;  they  bit  the  same  loaf  of  buckwheat 
and  drank  from  the  jug  one  after  the  other. 

"  You  belong  to  this  country  ?  "  asked  the  Marquis. 

"  I  have  never  been  out  of  it." 


Hg  82  8* 

u  Have  I  ever  met  you  before  ?  " 

"  Often,  for  I  am  your  own  beggar.  I  was  the  poor 
man  at  the  foot  of  the  road  to  your  castle.  You  used  to 
give  me  alms.  I  held  out  my  hand,  you  saw  the  hand 
5  only,  and  you  dropped  in  it  the  alms  which  I  needed  in 
the  morning  to  keep  me  from  dying  of  hunger  at  night. 
Sometimes  a  sou  saved  my  life.  I  owe  you  my  life.  I 
pay  the  debt." 

His  voice  grew  serious.     "  On  one  condition." 
10      "  What  is  that  ?  " 

"  That  you  do  not  come  here  to  work  evil." 

"  I  come  here  to  do  good,"  said  the  Marquis. 

"  Let  us  sleep,"  said  the  beggar. 

They  lay  down  side  by  side  on  the  bed  of  seaweed, 
is  The  beggar  fell  asleep  immediately.  The  Marquis,  al- 
though very  tired,  remained  absorbed  in  thought  for  a 
time,  then  he  looked  at  the  poor  man  in  the  darkness 
and  lay  down  again.  Lying  on  this  pallet  was  like 
lying  on  the  ground ;  he  took  advantage  of  it  to  put 
20  his  ear  to  the  earth  and  listen.  There  was  a  dull  hum- 
ming underground ;  he  heard  the  noise  of  the  bells. 

The  tocsin  was  still  sounding. 

The  Marquis  fell  asleep. 

When  he  awoke  it  was  day. 
25      Tellmarch,  the  beggar,  was  outside  near  the  entrance. 
He  was  leaning  on  his  stick.     The  sun  shone  on  his 
face. 

" Monseigneur,"  said  Tellmarch,  "it  has  just  struck 
four  from  the  belfry  of  Tanis.     I  heard  the  four  strokes. 


-»8  83  8«- 

So  the  wind  has  changed,  it  is  blowing  offshore  ;  I 
hear  no  other  sound,  so  the  tocsin  has  ceased.  Every- 
thing is  quiet  at  the  farm  and  in  the  hamlet.  The 
worst  of  the  danger  is  over ;  it  will  be  wise  for  us  to 
separate.     It  is  my  hour  for  setting  out."  5 

He  indicated  a  point  'on  the  horizon. 

"  I  am  going  that  way." 

He  pointed  in  the  opposite  direction. 

"You  must  go  this  way." 

The  beggar  saluted  the  Marquis  solemnly.  10 

A  moment  later  he  had  disappeared  among  the  trees. 

The  Marquis  rose  and  went  in  the  direction  Tellmarch 
had  pointed  out  to  him. 

It  was  the  charming  morning  hour,  called  in  the  old 
Norman  peasant  tongue  "  the  song  sparrow  of  the  day."  15 
The  finches  and  hedge  sparrows  were  chirping.     The 
Marquis  followed  the  path  by  which  they  had  come  the 
night  before. 

At  the  foot  of  the  crossroad  where  he  was  stealing 
along,  he  could  see  only  the  roofs  of  the  farms  which  20 
lay  to  the  left.  He  was  skirting  a  steep  height.  At 
the  foot  of  the  height  the  view  was  abruptly  lost  in 
the  trees.  The  foliage  seemed  bathed  in  light.  All 
nature  was  filled  with  the  deep  joy  of  the  morning. 

Suddenly  the  landscape  became  terrible.    It  was  like  25 
the  bursting  forth  of  an  ambuscade.     A  strange  deluge 
of   wild  cries  and  gunshots  fell  over  the  fields  and 
woods  full  of  sunlight,  and  in  the  direction  of  the  farm 
a  great  smoke  pierced  by  bright  flames  arose,  as  if  the 


hamlet  and  the  farm  were  nothing  but  a  bundle  of 
burning  straw.  It  was  sudden  and  fearful,  an  abrupt 
change  from  peace  to  madness,  a  horror  without  warn- 
ing. The  Marquis  stopped. 
5  There  is  no  one  who,  under  similar  circumstances, 
would  not  have  felt  that  curiosity  is  stronger  than 
danger;  one  must  know,  if  he  has  to  die  in  con- 
sequence. He  climbed  up  the  height,  at  the  foot  of 
which  passed  the  hollow  path.     From  there  he  could 

10  see,  but  he  might  also  be  seen.  He  looked  about 
him. 

To  be  sure,  there  was  firing  and  a  fire.  The  noise 
could  be  heard,  the  fire  could  be  seen.  The  farm  was 
the  center  of  some  terrible  calamity.     What  was  it? 

15  Was  the  farm  attacked  ?  And  by  whom  ?  Was  it  a 
battle  ?  The  Blues,  as  they  had  been  ordered,  very 
often  punished  refractory  farms  and  villages  by  setting 
them  on  fire ;  to  make  an  example  of  them  they  burned 
every  farm  and  every  hamlet  which  had  not  felled  the 

20  trees  prescribed  by  law,  and  which  had  not  opened  pas- 
sages through  the  thickets  for  the  republican  cavalry. 
It  was  evident  that  none  of  the  openings  ordered  by  the 
decree  had  been  made  in  the  thickets  and  hedges  of 
Tanis.     Was  this  the  punishment  ? 

25  While  the  Marquis,  hesitating  to  go  down,  hesitating 
to  remain,  was  listening  and  watching,  this  din  ceased. 
The  Marquis  was  aware  of  something  in  the  thicket 
like  the  scattering  of  a  wild  and  joyous  troop.  There 
was  a  frightful  swarming  under  the  trees.     They  were 


-•6  85  8«- 

rushing  from  the  farm  into  the  woods.  Drums  were 
beating.  No  more  firing  was  heard.  They  seemed  to 
be  hunting  about,  pursuing,  tracking;  it  was  evident 
that  they  were  in  search  of  some  one ;  the  noise  was 
scattered  and  deep ;  it  was  a  medley  of  words  of  anger  5 
and  of  triumph,  a  clamorous  uproar;  suddenly,  as  an 
outline  becomes  visible  in  a  cloud  of  smoke,  something 
became  articulate  and  distinct  in  this  tumult.  It  was 
a  name  —  a  name  repeated  by  a  thousand  voices,  and 
the  Marquis  heard  clearly  this  cry :  —  10 

"  Lantenac !  Lantenac  !  the  Marquis  de  Lantenac  ! " 

It  was  he  for  whom  they  were  hunting. 

Suddenly,  all  around  him  and  on  every  side  at  once, 
the  thicket  was  filled  with  guns,  bayonets,  and  swords, 
a  tricolored  flag  arose  in  the  shade,  the  cry  of  u  Lante-  15 
nac ! "  burst  on  his  ear,  and  at  his  feet  through  the 
brambles  and  branches  passionate  faces  appeared. 

The  Marquis  was  alone,  standing  on  a  summit  which 
could  be  seen  from  every  point  of  the  wood.  He  could 
scarcely  see  those  who  were  crying  his  name,  but  he  20 
was  seen  by  all.  If  there  were  a  thousand  guns  in 
the  woods,  he  was  a  target  for  them.  He  could  dis- 
tinguish nothing  in  the  thicket  but  eager  eyes  fixed 
upon  him. 

He  took  off  his  hat,  turned  up  the  rim,  broke  a  long,  25 
dry  thorn  from  a  furze  bush,  drew  a  white  cockade  from 
his  pocket,  fastened  the  brim  and  the  cockade  back  to 
the  crown  of  the  hat  with  the  thorn,  and  putting  the 
hat  on  his  head  again,  so  that  the  raised  rim  showed 


^9  86  9<- 

his  forehead  and  his  cockade,  he  said  in  a  loud  voice, 
speaking  to  the  whole  forest  at  once :  — 

"  I  am  the  man  you  are  seeking.  I  am  the  Marquis 
de  Lantenac,  Prince  of  Brittany,  Lieutenant-General  of 
5  the  armies  of  the  king.  Make  an  end  of  it.  Aim ! 
Fire!" 

And,  tearing  open  his  goatskin  vest,  he  bared  his 
naked  breast. 

He  looked  down,  expecting  to  meet  loaded  guns,  and 
10  saw  himself  surrounded  with  kneeling  men. 

A  great  shout  arose:  "Long  live  Lantenac!  Long 
live  the  general!" 

At  the  same  time  hats  were  thrown  in  the  air,  swords 
flourished  joyfully,  and  throughout  the  whole  thicket 
15  sticks  were  seen  rising,  on  whose  points  whirled  brown 
woolen  caps. 

He  was  surrounded  by  a  Vendean  band.  This  troop 
fell  on  their  knees  when  they  saw  him. 

All  these  eyes,  full  of  a  terrible  fire,  were  fixed  on 
20  the  Marquis  with  a  sort  of  savage  love. 

A  young;,  noble-looking  man  made  his  way  through 
the  kneeling  soldiers,  and  with  long  strides  went  up 
towards  the  Marquis.  Like  the  peasants,  he  wore  a 
felt  hat  with  turned-up  rim  and  a  white  cockade,  and 
25  was  wrapped  in  a  fur  jacket,  but  his  hands  were 
white  and  his  linen  fine,  and  he  wore  over  his  vest 
a  white  silk  scarf,  from  which  hung  a  sword  with  a 
gold  hilt. 

When  he  reached  the  height  he  threw  down  his  hat, 


^6  87  9^ 

unfastened  his  scarf,  knelt  on  one  knee,  and  presented 
scarf  and  sword  to  the  Marquis,  saying :  — 

"  We  were  searching  for  you,  and  we  have  found  you. 
Accept  the  sword  of  command.  These  men  are  now 
yours.  I  was  their  commander ;  I  am  promoted  to  a 
higher  rank,  for  I  become  your  soldier.  Accept  our 
homage,  my  lord.     General,  give  me  your  orders." 

From  "Ninety-Three." 


"•$0  ob  3**" 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emekson  was  born  in  Boston  on  the 
25th  of  May,  1803.  His  father,  William  Emerson,  was 
a  minister.  The  parsonage  was  on  Summer  Street,  where 
at  that  time  were  many  pretty  homes  with  gardens. 

Mr.  Emerson  took  great  interest  in  the  education  of 
his  children,  and  Ralph  was  sent  to  a  private  school 

before  he  was  three  years 
old.  His  father  died  dur- 
ing his  early  boyhood,  and 
his  mother  worked  hard 
to  support  and  educate 
her  five  sons. 

The    boys    were    very 

fond  of  their  books  and 

were  manly  and  helpful, 

doing  all  they  could  for 

their  mother.   Their  aunt, 

Mary  Emerson,  lived  with 

them,  and  she  guided  their 

20  choice  of  reading  and  led  them  to  think.     "  Lift  your 

aims";    "Always    do   what   you   are   afraid   to    do"; 

u  Scorn  trifles "  were  the  maxims  which  she  gave  to 

her  nephews. 

Ralph  entered  the  Latin  School  when  he  was  ten 

25  years  old,  remaining  there  until  he  entered  college.    His 

books  were  his  chief  source  of  happiness,  and  the  scenes 

in  them  were  so  real  to  him  and  his  brothers  that  when 


-♦9  89  9*- 

they  visited  their  grandmother  at  Concord,  they  imag- 
ined in  their  play  that  the  barns,  garret,  or  woods  were 
battlefields  or  mountain-tops. 

Many  were  the  poems  which  they  could  repeat,  and 
a  clerk  in  one  of  the  Concord  stores  used  to  stand  little    5 
Ralph  on  a  barrel  so  that  he  might  entertain  the  cus- 
tomers with  his  recitations. 

Each  of  the  boys  was  fitted  for  college,  and  helped 
pay  his  own  expenses  by  teaching  and  acting  as  usher 
or  waiter.  Ralph  entered  Harvard  College  when  he  was  10 
but  fourteen.  He  occupied  a  room  at  the  President's 
house,  and  paid  for  it  by  carrying  official  messages. 
He  won  five  dollars  at  the  prize  declamations  and  sent 
the  money  home,  hoping  that  it  would  enable  his  mother 
to  purchase  a  new  shawl;  but  it  was  needed  to  pay  a  15 
debt. 

Ralph  was  graduated  when  he  was  eighteen,  and  was 
chosen  class  poet.  He  and  his  brother  William,  two 
years  his  senior,  opened  a  school  for  young  ladies  in 
Mrs.  Emerson's  house.  It  was  fairly  successful,  but  as  20 
soon  as  they  were  well  established,  William  went  to 
Germany  and  left  Ralph  in  charge.  He  taught  during 
more  than  a  year,  and  then  entered  the  Divinity  School 
at  Harvard  College. 

Within  a  month  his  health  failed,  and  he  was  obliged  25 
to  give  up  his  studies.     He  went  to  visit  an  uncle  at 
Newton,  spending  much  of  his  time  out  of  doors.     The 
next  fall  he  went  to  Chelmsford  to  teach  in  the  Academy. 
-He  remained  there  three  months,  and  then  left  on  account 


•*8  90  8*- 

of  ill-health.  In  the  spring  he  took  a  school  at  Cam- 
bridge, in  order  to  be  where  he  might  gain  some  benefit 
from  the  Divinity  School,  and  in  October  of  this  year, 
1826,  he  was  "  approbated  to  preach." 
5  His  health,  however,  had  so  failed  that  his  physician 
ordered  him  to  go  south.  He  traveled  as  far  as  St. 
Augustine,  and  the  next  summer  returned  home,  im- 
proved in  health,  but  not  fully  recovered. 

He  was   married,  soon   after   his  return,  to   Ellen 

10  Tucker,  a  very  beautiful  young  lady,  but  of  delicate 

health.     She  died  a  year  and  a  half  after  her  marriage. 

Mr.  Emerson  was  for  a  time  the  pastor  of  a  church 

in  Boston.     He  then  sailed  for  Europe,  desiring  to  see 

the  ancient  cities  and  to  make  the  acquaintance  of 

15  some  of  the  men  .whose  works  had  influenced  him, 
among  them  being  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  and  Carlyle. 
He  found  Carlyle  among  the  lonely  hills  of  Niths- 
dale,  and  the  two  philosophers  formed  a  friendship 
which  lasted  throughout  their  lives. 

20  On  Emerson's  return  to  this  country  he  engaged  in 
lecturing,  and  preached  at  Plymouth  during  that  winter. 
There  he  met  Lydia  Jackson,  to  whom  he  was  married 
the  following  September.  Mr.  Emerson  took  his  bride 
to  their  new  home  in  Concord,  where  he  lived  the  rest 

25  of  his  life,  and  which  is  still  occupied  by  the  family. 
He  spent  much  of  his  time  out  of  doors ;  and  the  grove 
near  by,  rather  than  his  library,  was  used  by  him  as  a 
study.  He  believed  that  his  thoughts  were  clearer  and 
truer  in  this  solitude,  with  only  the  winds  and  the  voices 


^919*- 


of  birds  to  distract  him.  He  found  inspiration  in  the 
stars  at  night  and  even  braved  the  wind  storms,  revel- 
ing in  their  grandeur. 

Friends  gathered  in  Concord,  among  them  Hawthorne, 
Thoreau,  Alcott,  and  the  Curtis  boys,  while  near  by  were 
Longfellow,  Holmes,  and  Lowell.    Their  society  afforded 
him    much   pleas- 
ure. Emerson  was 
also  a  favorite 
among  the  village 
farmers,   and   the 
little  children 
loved  him  dearly. 

Much  of  his  time 
was  spent  in  lectur- 
ing. He  received 
but  little  from  his 

books  of  "Essays,"  "Poems,"  "Representative  Men," 
and  other  works  until  the  latter  years  of  his  life.  In 
his  seventieth  year  he  went  abroad  for  the  third  time,  20 
revisiting  his  old  friend  Carlyle.  On  his  return  to 
Concord  the  whole  village  welcomed  him,  and  his 
friends  and  neighbors  accompanied  him  to  his  home, 
under  a  triumphal  arch. 

His   last  few   years  were  quiet  and   peaceful.     He  25 
died  on  the  27th  of  April,  1882,  and  was  buried  under 
a  great  pine  tree  in  Sleepy  Hollow  cemetery. 


EMERSON'S     HOME    AT    CONCORD,    MASS. 


-»6  92  9«- 

EACH  AND   ALL. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

Little  thinks,  in  the  field,  yon  red-cloaked  clown, 

Of  thee,  from  the  hilltop  looking  down ; 

The  heifer  that  lows  in  the  upland  farm, 

Far-heard,  lows  not  thine  ear  to  charm ; 

The  sexton,  tolling  his  bell  at  noon 

Deems  not  that  great  Napoleon 

Stops  his  horse,  and  lists  with  delight 

Whilst  his  files  sweep  round  yon  Alpine  height ; 

Nor  knowest  thou  what  argument 

Thy  life  to  thy  neighbor's  creed  has  lent. 

All  are  needed  by  each  one  — 

Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone. 

I  thought  the  sparrow's  note  from  heaven, 
Singing  at  dawn  on  the  alder-bough ; 
I  brought  him  home,  in  his  nest,  at  even; 
He  sings  the  song,  but  it  pleases  not  now ; 
For  I  did  not  bring  home  the  river  and  sky  j 
He  sang  to  my  ear  —  they  sang  to  my  eye. 

The  delicate  shells  lay  on  the  shore ; 
The  bubbles  of  the  latest  wave 
Fresh  pearls  to  their  enamel  gave, 
And  the  bellowing  of  the  savage  sea 
Greeted  their  safe  escane  to  me. 


I  wiped  away  the  weeds  and  foam  — 

I  fetched  my  sea-born  treasures  home ; 

But  the  poor,  unsightly,  noisome  things 

Had  left  their  beauty  on  the  shore, 

With  the  sun,  and  the  sand,  and  the  wild  uproar. 

Then  I  said  :  "  I  covet  truth ; 

Beauty  is  unripe  childhood's  cheat; 

I  leave  it  behind  with  the  games  of  youth." — 

As  I  spoke,  beneath  my  feet 

The  ground-pine  curled  its  pretty  wreath, 

Running  over  the  club-moss  burrs ; 

I  inhaled  the  violet's  breath; 

Around  me  stood  the  oaks  and  firs ; 

Pine-cones  and  acorns  lay  on  the  ground ; 

Over  me  soared  the  eternal  sky, 

Full  of  light  and  of  deity ; 

Again  I  saw,  again  I  heard 

The  rolling  river,  the  morning  bird ;  — 

Beauty  through  my  senses  stole  — 

I  yielded  myself  to  the  perfect  whole. 


-*8  94  8*- 

EYES. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

Man  cannot  fix  his  eye  on  the  sun,  and  so  far  seems 
imperfect.  In  Siberia  a  late  traveler  found  men  who 
could  see  the  satellites  of  Jupiter  with  their  unaided  eye. 
In  some  respects  the  animals  excel  us.     The  birds  have 

5  a  longer  sight,  besides  the  advantage  by  their  wings  of 
a  higher  observatory.  A  cow  can  bid  her  calf,  by  secret 
signal,  probably  of  the  eye,  to  run  away,  or  to  lie  down 
and  hide  itself.  The  jockeys  say  of  certain  horses,  that 
"they  look  over  the  whole  ground/'    The  outdoor  life 

10  and  hunting  and  labor  give  equal  vigor  to  the  human 
eye.  A  farmer  looks  out  at  you  as  strong  as  the  horse  ; 
his  eye-beam  is  like  the  stroke  of  a  staff.  An  eye  can 
threaten  like  a  loaded  and  leveled  gun,  or  can  insult 
like  hissing  or  kicking ;  or,  in  its  altered  mood,  by  beams 

15  of  kindness,  it  can  make  the  heart  dance  with  joy. 

The  eye  obeys  exactly  the  action  of  the  mind. 
When  a  thought  strikes  us,  the  eyes  fix,  and  remain 
gazing  at  a  distance ;  in  enumerating  the  names  of 
persons   or  of   countries,  as  France,  Germany,  Spain, 

20  Turkey,  the  eyes  wink  at  each  new  name.  There  is 
no  nicety  of  learning  sought  by  the  mind,  which  the 
eyes  do  not  vie  in  acquiring.  "  An  artist,"  says 
Michael  Angelo,  "  must  have  his  measuring  tools,  not 
in  the  hand,  but  in  the  eye  " ;  and  there  is  no  end  to 

25  the  catalogue  of  its  performances. 


-•6  95  9«~ 

Eyes  are  bold  as  lions  —  roving,  running,  leaping, 
here  and  there,  far  and  near.  They  speak  all  languages. 
They  wait  for  no  introduction ;  .  .  .  ask  no  leave  of  age 
or  rank ;  they  respect  neither  poverty  nor  riches,  nei- 
ther learning  nor  power,  .  .  .  but  intrude,  and  come  5 
again,  and  go  through  and  through  you,  in  a  moment 
of  time.  .  .  .  The  glance  is  natural  magic.  The  myste- 
rious communication  established  across  a  house  between 
two  entire  strangers  moves  all  the  springs  of  wonder. 
The  communication  by  the  glance  is  in  the  greatest  10 
part  not  subject  to  the  control  of  the  will.  It  is  the 
bodily  symbol  of  identity  of  nature.  We  look  into 
the  eyes  to  know  if  this  other  form  is  another  self,  and 
the  eyes  will  not  lie,  but  make  a  faithful  confession 
what  inhabitant  is  there.  ...  15 

The  eyes  of  men  converse  as  much  as  their  tongues, 
with  the  advantage  that  the  ocular  dialect  needs  no 
dictionary,  *  but  is  understood  all  the  world  over. 
When  the  eyes  say  one  thing,  and  the  tongue  another, 
a  practised  man  relies  on  the  language  of  the  first.  20 
If  the  man  is  off  his  centre,  the  eyes  show  it.  You 
can  read  in  the  eyes  of  your  companion  whether  your 
argument  hits  him,  though  his  tongue  will  not  confess 
it.  There  is  a  look  by  which  a  man  shows  he  is  going 
to  say  a  good  thing,  and  a  look  when  he  has  said  it.  25 
Vain  and  forgotten  are  all  the  fine  offers  and  offices  of 
hospitality  if  there  is  no  holiday  in  the  eye.  How 
many  furtive  inclinations  avowed  by  the  eye,  though 
dissembled  by  the  lips !     One  comes  away  from  a  com- 


-)g  96  e<- 

pany  in  which  it  may  easily  happen  he  has  said 
nothing,  and  no  important  remark  has  been  addressed 
to  him,  and  yet,  if  in  sympathy  with  the  society,  he 
shall  not  have  a  sense  of  this  fact,  such  a  stream  of  life 

5  has  been  flowing  into  him,  and  out  from  him,  through 
the  eyes.  There  are  eyes,  to  be  sure,  that  give  no 
more  admission  into  the  man  than  blueberries.  Others 
are  liquid  and  deep  —  wells  that  a  man  may  fall  into  ; 
others  are  aggressive  and  devouring,  seem  to  call  out 

10  the  police,  take  all  too  much  notice,  and  require 
crowded  Broadways,  and  the  security  of  millions,  to 
protect  individuals  against  them.  .  .  .  There  are  asking 
eyes,  asserting  eyes,  prowling  eyes;  and  eyes  full  of 
fate  —  some  of  good  and  some  of  sinister  omen.     The 

is  alleged  power  to  charm  down  insanity,  or  ferocity  in 
beasts,  is  a  power  behind  the  eye.  It  must  be  a 
victory  achieved  in  the  will,  before  it  can  be  signified 
in  the  eve 

«    '  From  the  Essay  on  "  Behavior." 


-»8  97  8<- 

THE   PERCEPTION  OF   BEAUTY. 

WILLIAM  ELLERY  CHANNING. 

Beauty  is  an  all-pervading  presence.  It  unfolds  in 
the  numberless  flowers  of  the  spring.  It  waves  in  the 
branches  of  the  trees  and  the  green  blades  of  grass.  It 
haunts  the  depths  of  the  earth  and  sea,  and  gleams  out 
in  the  hues  of  the  shell  and  the  precious  stone.  And  5 
not  only  these  minute  objects,  but  the  ocean,  the  moun- 
tains, the  clouds,  the  heavens,  the  stars,  the  rising  and 
setting  sun,  all  overflow  with  beauty.  The  universe  is 
its  temple,  and  those  men  who  are  alive  to  it  cannot 
lift  their  eyes  without  feeling  themselves  encompassed  10 
with  it  on  every  side. 

Now  this  beauty  is  so  precious,  the  enjoyments  it 
gives  are  so  refined  and  pure,  so  congenial  with  our 
tenderest  feelings,  and  so  akin  to  worship,  that  it  is 
painful  to  think  of  the  multitude  of  men  as  living  in  15 
the  midst  of  it,  and  living  almost  as  blind  to  it  as  if 
they  were  tenants  of  a  dungeon.  An  infinite  joy  is  lost 
to  the  world  by  the  want  of  culture  of  this  spiritual 
endowment.  The  greatest  truths  are  wronged  if  not 
linked  with  beauty,  and  they  win  their  way  most  surely  20 
and  deeply  into  the  soul  when  arrayed  in  this  their 
natural  and  fit  attire.  Now  no  man  receives  the  true 
culture  of  a  man,  in  whom  the  sensibility  to  the  beau- 
tiful is  not  cherished ;  and  I  know  of  no  condition  of 
life  from  which  it  should  be  excluded.  25 


<4g  98  8«- 

LOST   ON   THE   MOUNTAIN. 
BERNARDIN  DE  ST.  PIERRE. 

Bernardin  de  St.  Pierre*  was  born  at  Havre,  France,  in 
1737. 

He  was  very  fond  of  nature,  books,  and  animals,  but  cared  lit- 
tle for  other  companionship.  At  twelve  years  of  age  he  became 
5  absorbed  in  the  adventures  of  "  Robinson  Crusoe."  To  please 
the  boy  his  parents  allowed  him  to  take  a  sea  voyage  with  his 
uncle. 

On  his  return  he  studied  at  Caen,  where  he  made  great  prog- 
ress. He  completed  his  studies  at  Rome,  and  soon  after  was 
io  granted  a  commission  as  an  engineer.  He  was  then  sent  to 
Dusseldorf,  and  might  have  attained  honor  and  a  fortune,  but  he 
had  a  faulty  temper  and  was  unwilling  to  obey  orders,  so  that  in 
spite  of  his  bravery  and  talents  he  was  sent  back  to  France. 

After  years  of  changes  and  trouble  he  went  to  Paris  and 
15  devoted  himself  to  literature. 

His  "  Paul  and  Virginia  "  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  stories 

ever  written,  and  has  been  translated  into  many  languages.     It 

is  said  that  Napoleon  slept  with  a  copy  of  this  book  beneath 

his  pillow  during  his  Italian  campaign,  and  Joseph  Bonaparte 

20  awarded  a  pension  of  six  thousand  francs  to  the  author. 

St.  Pierre  was  elected  a  member  of  the  French  Academy  as  a 
mark  of  honor,  and  his  last  years  were  happier  than  his  youth 
had  ever  been.     He  died  at  the  age  of  seventy-seven. 

One  Sunday,  at  daybreak,  the  children  perceived  a 
25  negro  woman  beneath  the  plantains  which  surrounded 
their  habitation.  She  threw  herself  at  the  feet  of 
Virginia  and  said :  "  My  good  young  lady,  have  pity 
on  a  poor  runaway  slave.  For  a  whole  month  I  have 
wandered  among  these  mountains,  half  dead  with  hun- 


-4Q   99  8<- 

ger  and  often  pursued  by  the  hunters  and  their  dogs. 
I  fled  from  my  master,  a  rich  planter  of  the  Black 
River,  who  has  used  me  as  you  see  " ;  and  she  showed 
her  body  marked  with  scars  from  the  lashes  she  had 
received.  She  added  :  "  I  was  going  to  drown  myself,  5 
but  hearing  you  lived  here,  I  said  to  myself:  Since 
there  are  still  some  good  white  people  in  this  country, 
I  need  not  die  yet." 

Virginia  answered  with  emotion :  "  Take  courage, 
unfortunate  creature !  here  is  something  to  eat "  ;  and  10 
she  gave  her  the  breakfast  she  had  been  preparing, 
which  the  slave  in  a  few  minutes  devoured.  When 
her  hunger  was  appeased,  Virginia  said  to  her :  "  Poor 
woman!  I  should  like  to  go  and  ask  forgiveness  for 
you  of  your  master.  Surely  the  sight  of  you  will  is 
touch  him  with  pity.     Will  you  show  me  the  way  ?  " 

"  Angel  of  heaven  !  "  answered  the  poor  negro  woman, 
"  I  will  follow  you  where  you  please  !  "  Virginia  called 
her  brother  and  begged  him  to  accompany  her.  The 
slave  led  the  way,  by  winding  and  difficult  paths,  until,  20 
about  the  middle  of  the  day,  they  reached  the  borders 
of  the  Black  River.  There  they  perceived  a  well-built 
house,  surrounded  by  extensive  plantations,  and  a  num- 
ber of  slaves  employed  in  their  various  labors.  Their 
master  was  walking  among  them  with  a  pipe  in  his  25 
mouth  and  a  switch  in  his  hand.  Virginia,  holding 
Paul  by  the  hand,  drew  near,  and  with  much  emotion 
begged  him,  for  the  love  of  God,  to  pardon  his  poor 
slave,  who  stood  trembling  a  few  paces  behind. 


-»8  100  8<- 

The  planter  at  first  paid  little  attention  to  the  chil- 
dren, but  when  he  observed  the  elegance  of  Virginia's 
form  and  the  profusion  of  her  beautiful  light  tresses 
which  had  escaped  from  beneath  her  blue  cap ;  when 

5  he  heard  the  soft  tone  of  her  voice  which  trembled, 
as  well  as  her  whole  frame,  while  she  implored  his 
compassion,  —  he  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and, 
lifting  up  his  stick,  said  that  he  pardoned  his  slave, 
for  the  love  of  her  who  asked  his  forgiveness.     Vir- 

10  ginia  made  a  sign  to  the  slave  to  approach  her  master, 
and  instantly  sprang  away,  followed  by  Paul. 

They  climbed  up  the  steep  they  had  descended,  and, 
having  gained  the  summit,  seated  themselves  at  the 
foot  of  a  tree,  overcome  with  fatigue,  hunger,  and  thirst. 

15  Paul  said  to  Virginia :  u  My  dear  sister,  it  is  past  noon, 
and  I  am  sure  you  are  thirsty  and  hungry ;  we  shall 
find  no  dinner  here;  let  us  go  down  the  mountain 
again  and  ask  the  master  of  the  poor  slave  for  some 
food.,,  — "  Oh,  no,"  answered  Virginia,  "he  frightens 

20  me  too  much.  Remember  what  mamma  sometimes 
says,  'The  bread  of  the  wicked  is  like  stones  in  the 
mouth.'  God  will  take  care  of  us ;  he  listens  to  the 
cry  even  of  the  little  birds  when  they  ask  him  for 
food.,, 

26  Scarcely  had  she  pronounced  these  words  when  they 
heard  the  noise  of  water  falling  from  a  neighboring 
rock.  They  ran  thither,  and  having  quenched  their 
thirst  at  this  crystal  spring,  they  gathered  and  ate  a 
few  cresses  which  grew  on  the  border  of  the  stream. 


-KJ  101  9*-      ^  _   J    ,  ,    , 

Soon  afterwards,  while  they  were  wandering  backwards 
and  forwards  in  search  of  more  solid  nourishment,  Vir- 
ginia perceived  in  the  thickest  part  of  the  forest  a 
young  palm  tree.  The  kind  of  cabbage  which  is  found 
at  the  top  of  the  palm,  enfolded  within  its  leaves,  is  5 
well  adapted  for  food;  but  although  the  stock  of  the 
tree  is  not  thicker  than  a  man's  leg,  it  grows  to  above 
sixty  feet  in  height.  The  wood  of  the  tree,  indeed,  is 
composed  only  of  very  fine  filaments ;  but  the  bark  is 
so  hard  that  it  turns  the  edge  of  the  hatchet,  and  Paul  10 
was  not  furnished  even  with  a  knife. 

At  length  he  thought  of  setting  fire  to  the  palm  tree, 
but  a  new  difficulty  occurred;  he  had  no  steel  with 
which  to  strike  fire ;  and  although  the  whole  island  is 
covered  with  rocks,  I  do  not  believe  it  is  possible  to  15 
find  a  single  flint.  Paul  determined  to  kindle  a  fire 
after  the  manner  of  the  negroes.  With  the  sharp  end 
of  a  stone  he  made  a  small  hole  in  the  branch  of  a  tree 
that  was  quite  dry,  and  which  he  held  between  his 
feet ;  he  then,  with  the  edge  of  the  same  stone,  brought  20 
to  a  point  another  dry  branch  of  a  different  sort  of 
wood,  placing  the  piece  of  pointed  wood  in  the  small 
hole  of  the  branch  which  he  held  with  his  feet  and 
turning  it  rapidly  between  his  hands.  In  a  few  minutes 
smoke  and  sparks  of  fire  issued  from  the  point  of  25 
contact.  Paul  then  heaped  together  dried  grass  and 
branches,  and  set  fire  to  the  foot  of  the  palm  tree, 
which  soon  fell  to  the  ground  with  a  tremendous 
crash.       Having    thus    succeeded    in    obtaining    this 


^8  102  8«~ 

fruit,  they  ate  part  of  it  raw,  and  part  dressed  upon 
the  ashes. 

After  dinner  they  were  much  embarrassed  by  the 
recollection  that  they  had  now  no  guide,  and  that  they 
5  were  ignorant  of  the  way.  Paul,  whose  spirit  was  not 
subdued  by  difficulties,  said  to  Virginia:  "The  sun 
shines  full  upon  our  huts  at  noon;  we  must  pass,  as 
we  did  this  morning,  over  that  mountain,  with  its  three 
points,  which  you  see  yonder.     Come,  let  us  be  mov- 

10  ing."  They  then  descended  the  steep  bank  of  the  Black 
River  on  the  northern  side,  and  arrived,  after  an  hour's 
walk,  on  the  banks  of  a  large  river,  which  stopped  their 
further  progress. 

The  stream,  on  the  banks  of  which  Paul  and  Virginia 

15  were  now  standing,  rolled  foaming  over  a  bed  of  rocks. 
The  noise  of  the  water  frightened  Virginia,  and  she 
was  afraid  to  wade  through  the  current.  Paul  there- 
fore took  her  up  in  his  arms  and  went  thus  loaded  over 
the  slippery  rocks,  which  formed  the  bed  of  the  river, 

20  careless  of  the  tumultuous  noise  of  its  waters.  "Do 
not  be  afraid,"  cried  he  to  Virginia;  "I  feel  very 
strong  with  you.  If  that  planter  at  the  Black  River 
had  refused  you  the  pardon  of  his  slave,  I  would  have 
fought   with   him."  —  "  What !  "    answered    Virginia, 

25  "  with  that  great  wicked  man  ?  To  what  have  I 
exposed  you  !  Dear  me  !  how  difficult  it  is  to  do  good ! 
and  yet  it  is  so  easy  to  do  wrong." 

When  Paul  had  crossed  the  river  he  wished  to  con- 
tinue the  journey  carrying  his  sister,  but  his  strength 


-»6  103  9<- 

soon  failed,  and  he  was  obliged  to  set  down  his  burden 
and  to  rest  himself  by  her  side.  Virginia  then  said  to 
him :  "  My  dear  brother,  the  sun  is  going  down ;  you 
have  still  some  strength  left,  but  mine  has  quite  failed ; 
do  leave  me  here  and  return  home  alone  to  ease  the  5 
fears  of  our  mothers." — "Oh,  no,"  said  Paul,  "I  will 
not  leave  you;  if  night  overtakes  us  in  this  wood,  I 
will  light  a  fire  and  bring  down  another  palm  tree; 
you  shall  eat  the  cabbage,  and  I  will  form  a  covering 
of  the  leaves  to  shelter  you."  10 

In  the  mean  time  Virginia  being  a  little  rested,  she 
gathered  from  the  trunk  of  an  old  tree,  which  overhung 
the  bank  of  the  river,  some  long  leaves  of  the  plant 
called  hart's-tongue,  which  grew  near  its  root.  Of 
these  leaves  she  made  a  sort  of  buskin,  with  which  she  15 
covered  her  feet  which  were  bleeding  from  the  sharp- 
ness of  the  stony  paths ;  for  in  her  eager  desire  to  do 
good  she  had  forgotten  to  put  on  her  shoes.  Feeling 
her  feet  cooled  by  the  freshness  of  the  leaves,  she 
broke  off  a  branch  of  bamboo  and  continued  her  walk,  20 
leaning  with  one  hand  on  the  staff,  and  with  the  other 
on  Paul. 

They  walked  slowly  through  the  woods ;  but  from 
the  height  of  the  trees,  and  the  thickness  of  their 
foliage,  they  soon  lost  sight  of  the  mountain  by  which  25 
they  had  hitherto  directed  their  course,  and  also  of  the 
sun,  which  was  now  setting.  At  length  they  wan- 
dered from  the  beaten  path  in  which  they  had  hitherto 
walked,  and  found  themselves  in  a  labyrinth  of  trees, 


-*6  104  9«- 

underwood,  and  rocks,  whence  there  appeared  to  be  no 
outlet. 

Paul  made  Virginia  sit  down,  while  he  ran  back- 
wards and  forwards,  half  frantic,  in  search  of  a  path 

5  which  might  lead  them  out  of  this  thick  wood  ;  but 
he  fatigued  himself  to  no  purpose.  He  then  climbed 
to  the  top  of  a  lofty  tree,  whence  he  hoped  at  least  to 
perceive  the  mountain;  but  he  could  discern  nothing 
around  him  but  the  tops  of  trees,  some  of  which  were 

10  gilded  with  the  last  beams  of  the  setting  sun.  The 
most  profound  silence  reigned  in  those  awful  solitudes, 
which  was  only  interrupted  by  the  cry  of  the  deer 
which  came  to  their  lairs  in  that  unfrequented  spot. 
Paul,  in  the  hope  that  some  hunter  would  hear  his  voice, 

is  called  out  as  loud  as  he  was  able :  u  Come,  come  to 
the  help  of  Virginia ! "  But  the  echoes  of  the  forest 
alone  answered  his  call,  and  repeated  again  and  again, 
"  Virginia  —  Virginia !  " 

Paul  at  length  descended  from  the  tree,  overcome  by 

20  fatigue  and  vexation.  He  looked  around  in  order  to 
make  some  arrangement  for  passing  the  night  in  that 
desert ;  but  he  could  find  neither  fountain,  nor  palm 
tree,  nor  even  a  branch  of  dry  wood  fit  for  kindling  a 
fire.     He  was  then  impressed,  by  experience,  with  the 

26  sense  of  his  own  weakness  and  began  to  weep.  Vir- 
ginia said  to  him:  "Do  not  weep,  my  dear  brother, 
or  I  shall  be  overwhelmed  with  grief.  I  am  the  cause 
of  all  your  sorrow  and  of  all  that  our  mothers  are  suf- 
fering at  this  moment.     I  find  we  ought  to  do  nothing, 


-*6  105  8«- 

not  even  good,  without  consulting  our  parents.  Oh,  I 
have  been  very  imprudent ! "  —  and  she  began  to  shed 
tears.  "Let  us  pray  to  God,  my  dear  brother,"  she 
again  said,  "  and  he  will  hear  us."  They  had  scarcely 
finished  their  prayer  when  they  heard  the  barking  of  5 
a  dog.  "  It  must  be  the  dog  of  some  hunter,"  said 
Paul,  '-  who  comes  here  at  night,  to  lie  in  wait  for  the 
deer."  Soon  after,  the  dog  began  barking  again  with 
increased  violence. 

"  Surely,"  said  Virginia,  "  it  is  Fidele,  our  own  dog.  10 
Yes ;  now  I  know  his  bark."  A  moment  after  Fidele 
was  at  their  feet,  barking,  howling,  moaning,  and 
devouring  them  with  caresses.  Before  they  could 
recover  from  their  surprise,  they  saw  Domingo  running 
towards  them.  At  the  sight  of  the  good  old  negro  is 
who  wept  for  joy,  they  began  to  weep  too. 

When  Domingo  had  recovered  himself  a  little,  "  Oh, 
my  dear  children,"  said  he,  "  how  miserable  have  you 
made  your  mothers  !  How  astonished  they  were  when 
they  returned,  on  not  finding  you  at  home  !  I  ran  back-  20 
wards  and  forwards  in  the  plantation,  not  knowing  where 
to  look  for  you.  At  last  I  took  some  of  your  old  clothes, 
and  showing  them  to  Fidele,  the  poor  animal,  as  if  he 
understood  me,  immediately  began  to  scent  your  path, 
and  conducted  me,  wagging  his  tail  all  the  while,  to  25 
the  Black  River. 

"  I  there  saw  a  planter  who  told  me  you  had  brought 
back  a  Maroon  negro  woman,  his  slave,  and  that  he 
had  pardoned  her  at  your  request.     After  that,  Fidele, 


-»8  106  9«- 

still  on  the  scent,  led  me  up  the  steep  bank  of  the  Black 
River,  where  he  again  stopped  and  barked  with  all  his 
might.  At  last  he  led  me  to  this  very  spot.  We 
are  now  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain  and  still  four 

5  good  leagues  from  home.     Come,  eat  and  recover  your 
strength/' 

Domingo  then  presented  them  with  a  cake,  some 
fruit,  and  a  large  gourd  full  of  beverage.  But  when 
they  prepared  to  continue  their  journey  a  new  difficulty 

10  occurred;  Paul  and  Virginia  could  no  longer  walk, 
their  feet  being  swollen  and  inflamed.  Domingo  knew 
not  what  to  do ;  whether  to  leave  them  and  go  in  search 
of  help,  or  remain  and  pass  the  night  with  them  on 
that   spot.     "There  was  a  time,"   said   he,  "when  I 

15  could  carry  you  both  together  in  my  arms !  But  now 
you  are  grown  big,  and  I  am  old." 

While  he  was  in  this  perplexity,  a  troop  of  Maroon 
negroes  appeared  at  a  short  distance  from  them.  The 
chief  of  the  band,  approaching  Paul  and  Virginia,  said 

20  to  them:  "Good  little  white  people,  do  not  be  afraid. 
We  saw  you  pass  this  morning  with  a  negro  woman  of 
the  Black  River.  You  went  to  ask  pardon  for  her  of 
her  wicked  master;  and  we,  in  return  for  this,  will 
carry  you  home  upon  our  shoulders."     He  then  made 

25  a  sign,  and  four  of  the  strongest  negroes  immediately 
formed  a  sort  of  litter  with  the  branches  of  trees  and 
lianas,  and  having  seated  Paul  and  Virginia  on  it,  car- 
ried them  upon  their  shoulders.  Domingo  marched  in 
front  with  his  lighted  torch,  and  they  proceeded  amidst 


-*6  107  9«- 

tbe  rejoicings  of  the  whole  troop,  who  overwhelmed 
them  with  their  benedictions. 

It  was  midnight  when  they  arrived  at  the  foot  of 
their  mountain,  on  the  ridges  of  which  several  fires 
were  lighted.     As  soon  as  they  began  to  ascend,  they   s 
heard  voices  exclaiming:    "Is  it  you,  my  children?" 
They   answered  immediately,  and   the   negroes   also: 
"  Yes,  yes,  it  is."     A  moment  after  they  could  distin- 
guish their  mothers  coming  towards  them  with  lighted 
torches  in  their  hands.     "  Unhappy  children !  "    cried  10 
Madame  de  la  Tour,  "  where  have  you  been  ?    what 
agonies  you  have  made  us  suffer!  "  —  "We  have  been," 
said  Virginia,  "to  the  Black  River,  where  we  went  to 
ask  pardon  for  a  poor  Maroon  slave,  to  whom  I  gave 
our  breakfast  this  morning,  because  she  seemed  dying  i« 
of  hunger ;  and  these  Maroon  negroes  have  brought  us 
home."     Madame  de  la  Tour  embraced  her  daughter, 
without  being  able  to  speak ;  and  Virginia,  who  felt 
her  face  wet  with  her  mother's  tears,  exclaimed :  "  Now 
I  am  repaid  for  all  the  hardships  I  have  suffered."     Mar-  20 
garet,  in  a  transport  of  delight,  pressed  Paul  in  her  arms, 
exclaiming :  "And  you  also,  my  dear  child,  you  have  done 
a  good  action."     When  they  reached  the  cottages  with 
their  children,  they  entertained  all  the  negroes  with  a 
plentiful  repast,  after  which  the  latter  returned  to  the  25 
woods  praying  Heaven  to  shower  down  every  description 
of  blessing  on  those  good  white  people. 

From  "Paul  and  Virginia." 


-»6  108  8«- 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH. 


Oliver  Goldsmith  was  born  in  1728,  in  a  little  Irish 
hamlet  called  Pallas.  His  father  was  a  clergyman,  who 
found  it  hard  to  provide  for  his  large  family  of  eight 
children.     When  Oliver  was  two  years  old,  his  father 

was  offered  a  place 
as  curate  at  Lis- 
soy,  and  the  fam- 
ily moved  to  a 
large  house  near 
that  village. 

A    servant, 
named    Elizabeth 
Delop,  taught  the 
alphabet  to   little 
Oliver,  and  he  was 
afterwards  sent  to 
the  village  school. 
His  teacher  was  an 
old  quartermaster 
named   Thomas 
Byrne,  who  used  to  shoulder  a  crutch  and  show  the  boys 
"  how  fields  were  won."    He  told  the  children  Irish  folk- 
stories  and  wild  legends  and  sang  them  many  a  song. 
While    at   this    school,   Oliver   was   taken    ill   with 
25  smallpox,  and  was  sent,  on  recovering,  to  the  Griffin 
school   at   Roscommon.     The   pale-faced   little   fellow 
learned  very  slowly  and  was  looked  upon  as  a  dunce. 


-*8  109  8<- 

The  boys  laughed  at  him  and  imposed  upon  him, 
although  they  all  regarded  him  as  kind-hearted  and 
affectionate. 

Oliver  was  no  dunce,  though  he  seemed  so  stupid 
and  awkward.  After  he  became  famous,  these  very  5 
playmates  remembered  bright  answers  he  had  given 
when  they  had  roused  him  beyond  endurance.  While 
attending  school  at  Roscommon,  Oliver  stayed  with  his 
Uncle  John.  A  country  dance  was  once  given  at  the 
house.  The  gay  music  led  Oliver  to  forget  his  shyness,  10 
and  he  began  to  dance  the  hornpipe.  The  fiddler 
laughed  and  called  him  "  Ugly  iEsop."  Oliver  quickly 
turned  to  him  and  said :  — 

"  Heralds,  proclaim  aloud !  all  saying, 
See  iEsop  dancing  and  his  monkey  playing."  15 

In  spite  of  these  flashes  of  wit,  his  playmates  continued 
to  laugh  at  him  and  cheat  him  into  buying  their  worth- 
less toys,  and  he  was  thought  to  be  the  dullest  boy  in 
the  village. 

At  the  age  of  eleven  he  was  sent  to  a  school  at  Athlone,  20 
about  five  miles  away,  and  two  years  later  attended  a 
school  at  Edgeworthstown.     The  master,  Rev.  Patrick 
Hughes,  took  an  interest  in  the  lad,  and  was  the  only 
teacher  who  recognized  his  good  qualities. 

The  story  is  told  that  Oliver  was  returning  to  school  25 
after  a  holiday,  riding  a  horse  and  carrying  a  guinea  in  his 
pocket.    He  loitered  along  the  way,  enjoying  the  scenes, 
and  at  nightfall  found  himself  several  miles  from  school. 


-*6  i  io  |h- 

The  guinea  gave  him  such  a  sense  of  wealth  that  he 
inquired  the  way  to  the  best  house  in  the  village,  mean- 
ing the  best  inn.  The  man  of  whom  he  inquired  was 
amused  at  the  boy's  importance,  and  directed  him  to  the 
5  home  of  Squire  Featherstone.  Oliver  rang  at  the  gate, 
gave  his  orders  to  the  servant,  and  called  for  a  supper 
and  the  best  room  in  the  house.  The  squire,  seeing 
his  mistake,  carried  on  the  joke,  and  it  was  not  until 
Oliver  produced  the  guinea  to  settle  his  account  that 
io  he  learned  the  truth. 

He  afterwards  wrote  a  play,  which  has  such  an  inci- 
dent for  its  foundation. 

In  his  seventeenth  year  Oliver  went  to  Trinity  Col- 
lege, Dublin,  entering  as  a  "sizar,"  a  name  given  to 
is  those  students  who  were  educated  at  little  expense  but 
were  obliged  to  act  as  servants.  He  swept  the  courts 
and  waited  on  the  table.  He  had  a  room  in  a  garret, 
and  after  he  became  famous  it  was  found  that  he  had 
scrawled  his  name  upon  one  of  the  windows. 
20  The  unhappy  sizar  little  thought  that  some  day  this 
pane  of  glass  would  be  given  a  place  of  honor  in  the 
College  Library. 

Poor  Oliver  led  an  unhappy  life.     He  cared  little  for 

study  and  had  a  brutal  tutor.     A  year  and  a  half  after 

25  he  entered  college  his  father  died  and  he  was  in  want. 

Music  afforded  him  his  only  delight,  and  he  loved 
to  play  upon  his  flute  and  sing.  He  wrote  street  bal- 
lads to  keep  himself  from  starving  and  sold  them  for 
five   shillings   apiece.     The   happiest   hours   he   spent 


Hg  111  8*- 

were  those  when  he  crept  out  after  dark  to  listen  to 
the  singing  of  these  ballads  by  the  street  beggars. 

He  was  so  kind-hearted  that  he  seldom  reached  home 
with  the  whole  of  his  five  shillings.     Each  beggar's  cry 
would  touch  his  tender  heart,  and  he  often  robbed  him-   fi 
self  of  his  clothing  that  he  might  cover  some  shivering 
form. 

When  he  was  twenty-one,  Goldsmith  received  the 
degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts  and  returned  to  his  home. 
There  he  spent  a  happy  period  of  two  years,  helping  10 
his  brother,  who  taught  the  village  school,  and  assisting 
his  widowed  mother. 

After  trying  a  number  of  professions  without  success, 
Goldsmith  decided  to  emigrate  to  America.  He  started 
with  thirty  pounds  and  mounted  on  a  good  horse.  In  15 
six  weeks  he  returned,  riding  a  forlorn-looking  beast. 
He  said  that  he  had  reached  a  seaport  and  paid  his  pas- 
sage to  America,  but  that  the  winds  were  unfavorable, 
and  while  waiting  he  had  taken  a  little  trip  into  the 
country.  During  his  absence  a  fair  wind  had  arisen  20 
and  the  ship  had  sailed  without  him. 

Goldsmith  then  decided  to  study  law.     Mr.  Contarine, 
an  uncle,  lent  him  fifty  pounds,  and  he  set  out  for  Lon- 
don.    Stopping  at  Dublin,  he  met  an  old  schoolmate 
who  persuaded  him  to  try  his  luck  at  doubling  his  25 
money  at  a  card  table,  and  he  lost  it  all. 

Mr.  Contarine  did  not  entirely  lose  faith  in  his  way- 
ward nephew,  and,  learning  that  he  had  some  taste  for 
chemistry,  gave  him  the  means  to  start  the  study  of 


medicine.  Goldsmith  went  to  Edinburgh  and  spent 
eighteen  months  there.  He  then  continued  his  medi- 
cal studies  at  Leyden.  He  left  Ley  den  in  his  twenty- 
seventh  year.     The  day  before  his  departure  he  had  seen 

5  some  rare  plants  in  a  florist's  window.  Remembering 
that  his  uncle  had  expressed  a  desire  for  these  varieties, 
he  purchased  them  with  the  little  money  he  had  and 
sent  them  to  Ireland. 

The  next  year   was   spent  in   journeying   on   foot 

10  through  Flanders,  France,  and  Switzerland.  He  had 
little  or  no  money,  and  slept  in  barns  and  even  under 
hedges.  When  he  came  to  a  convent  or  a  monastery, 
he  found  shelter  for  the  night ;  and  his  flute  often 
earned  him  a  supper  and  a  lodging,  for  the  peasants, 

15  as  well  as  the  little  children,  enjoyed  and  rewarded 
him  for  the  merry  strains  which  set  them  to  dancing. 

The  wanderer  landed  at  Dover,  friendless  and  pen- 
niless. He  turned  strolling  player,  but  his  face  and 
figure  were  not  received  with  favor.     He  reached  Lon- 

20  don,  but  led  a  hard  life  there.  Unable  to  find  suitable 
employment,  he  pounded  drugs  and  ran  errands  for  a 
chemist,  served  as  usher  in  a  school,  and  was  even 
reduced  to  a  life  among  the  beggars. 

His  medical  education  was  of  little  use  to  him.     He 

26  tried  to  open  a  practice  in  London,  but  had  few  patients, 
and  while  at  their  bedsides  was  obliged  to  hold  his  hat 
over  his  coat  to  hide  the  worn  places. 

Goldsmith  now  began  to  toil  with  his  pen,  lodging 
in  a  garret  at  the  top  of  a  flight  of  stairs  called  "  Break- 


-»8  1  13  8«- 


neck  Steps."  In  this  wretched  abode,  he  wrote  many- 
articles  for  magazines  and  newspapers,  essays,  and  poems, 
as  were  called  for  by  the  bookseller  who  employed  him. 
His  style  was  pure  and  graceful,  and  his  humor  happy. 
There  was  beauty  in  all  that  he  wrote,  and  he  gradually   5 


DR.   JOHNSON     READING    "THE    VICAR    OF    WAKEFIELD." 

grew  in  favor.  He  made  the  acquaintance  of  Dr.  John- 
son, one  of  the  greatest  English  writers;  Reynolds,  a 
famous  English  painter;  and  Edmund  Burke,  a  dis- 
tinguished orator. 

Goldsmith  left  the  garret  at  the  top  of  "  Breakneck  10 
Steps"  and  took  rooms  in  a  better  locality;   but  he 
was  constantly  in  debt.     At  one  time  he  was  arrested^ 
for  not  paying  his  rent,  and  he  appealed  to  Johnson 


-*9  114  8*- 

for  help.  The  good  doctor  sent  him  a  guinea  and  soon 
followed  the  messenger.  He  found  that  Goldsmith 
had  changed  the  guinea,  bought  a  bottle  of  wine,  and 
was  upbraiding  the  landlady.     Dr.  Johnson  put  the  cork 

5  into  the  bottle,  and  told  Goldsmith  to  think  of  some 
way  out  of  his  difficulty. 

Goldsmith  told  him  that  he  had  a  novel  all  ready  for 
the  press.  Johnson  read  it,  saw  that  it  was  good,  and 
carrying  it  to  a  bookseller,  sold   it  for  sixty  pounds. 

10  The  debt  was  paid  and  the  sheriff's  officer  withdrew. 
The  novel  that  acted  as  rescuer  was  "The  Vicar  of 
Wakefield."  Before  it  was  published,  however,  "  The 
Traveler  "  appeared.  This  poem,  which  was  the  first 
work  to  which  Goldsmith  had  signed  his  name,  received 

is  highest  praise  from  the  critics. 

"The  Vicar  of  Wakefield"  was  published  when 
Goldsmith  was  thirty-eight  years  of  age.  Few  books 
have  been  more  popular.  The  story  sparkles  with  wit, 
and  the  fresh  home  life  appeals  to  every  one. 

20  "The  Deserted  Village,"  a  picture  of  simple,  village 
life,  was  published  four  years  later.  Even  Goldsmith's 
enemies  had  nothing  to  say  to  the  praise  which  greeted 
this  poem. 

He  wrote  a  play  called  "She  Stoops  to  Conquer," 

25  and  after  some  difficulty  found  a  manager  who  was 
willing  to  put  it  upon  the  stage.  It  was  received  with 
enthusiasm,  and  is  still  popular. 

The  last  years  of  his  life  were  attended  with  success, 
but  his  extravagant  way  of  living,  and  readiness  to 


-*8  1 15  8<- 

respond  to  the  call  of  every  needy  person,  kept  him 
always  in  debt. 

Goldsmith  died  in  1774,  in  his  forty-sixth  year.  His 
grave  has  been  forgotten,  but  he  has  been  honored 
with  a  monument  in  Westminster  Abbey,  bearing  an 
inscription  written  by  his  friend,  Dr.  Johnson. 


MOSES  AT   THE   FAIR. 

[Abridged.] 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

As  we  were  now  to  hold  up  our  heads  a  little  higher 
in  the  world,  it  would  be  proper  to  sell  the  colt,  which 
was  grown  old,  at  a  neighboring  fair,  and  buy  us  a 
horse  that  would  carry  single  or  double  upon  an  occa-  io 
sion  and  make  a  pretty  appearance  at  church  or  upon 
a  visit. 

As  the  fair  happened  on  the  following  day,  I  had 
intentions  of  going  myself ;  but  my  wife  persuaded  me 
that  I  had  a  cold,  and  nothing  could  prevail  upon  her  15 
to  permit  me  from  home.  "  No,  my  dear,"  said  she, 
"  our  son  Moses  is  a  discreet  boy  and  can  buy  and 
sell  to  very  good  advantage;  you  know  all  our  great 
bargains  are  of  his  purchasing.  He  always  stands 
out  and  higgles,  and  actually  tires  them  till  he  gets  20 
a  bargain." 


As  I  had  some  opinion  of  my  son's  prudence,  I  was 
willing  enough  to  intrust  him  with  this  commission; 
and  the  next  morning  I  perceived  his  sisters  busy  in 
fitting  out  Moses  for  the  fair,  trimming  his  hair,  brush- 
5  ing  his  buckles,  and  cocking  his  hat  with  pins.  The 
business  of  the  toilet  being  over,  we  had  at  last  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  him  mounted  upon  the  colt,  with 
a  deal  box  before  him  to  bring  home  groceries  in.  He 
had  on  a  coat  made  of  that  cloth  they  call  thunder  and 

10  lightning,  which,  though  grown  too  short,  was  much 
too  good  to  be  thrown  away.  His  waistcoat  was  of 
gosling  green,  and  his  sisters  had  tied  his  hair  with 
a  broad,  black  ribbon.  We  all  followed  hini  several 
paces  from  the  door,  bawling  after  him,  "  Good  luck ! 

is  good  luck !  "  till  we  could  see  him  no  longer. 

He  was  scarce  gone  when  Mr.  Thornhill's  butler  came 
to  congratulate  us  upon  our  good  fortune,  saying  that 
he  overheard  his  young  master  mention  our  names  with 
great  commendation. 

20  Good  fortune  seemed  resolved  not  to  come  alone. 
Another  footman  from  the  same  family  followed,  with 
a  card  for  my  daughters,  importing  that  the  two 
ladies  had  received  such  pleasing  accounts  from  Mr. 
Thornhill  of  us  all,  that  after  a  few  previous  inquiries 

26  they  hoped  to  be  perfectly  satisfied.  "  Ay,"  cried  my 
wife,  "  I  now  see  it  is  no  easy  matter  to  get  into  the 
families  of  the  great ;  but  when  one  once  gets  in,  then, 
as  Moses  says,  one  may  go  to  sleep."  To  this  piece 
of  humor,  for  she  intended  it  for  wit,  my  daughters 


-»6  117  &- 

assented  with  a  loud  laugh  of  pleasure.  In  short,  such 
was  her  satisfaction  at  this  message  that  she  actually 
put  her  hand  in  her  pocket  and  gave  the  messenger 
sevenpence  halfpenny. 

This  was  to  be  our  visiting  day.  The  next  that  s 
came  was  Mr.  Burchell,  who  had  been  at  the  fair.  He 
brought  my  little  ones  a  pennyworth  of  gingerbread 
each,  which  my  wife  undertook  to  keep  for  them  and 
give  them  by  little  at  a  time.  He  brought  my  daughters 
also  a  couple  of  boxes,  in  which  they  might  keep  wafers,  10 
snuff,  patches,  or  even  money,  when  they  got  it.  My 
wife  was  unusually  fond  of  a  weasel-skin  purse,  as  being 
the  most  lucky ;  but  this  by  the  by. 

I  wondered  what  could  keep  our  son  so  long  at  the 
fair,  as  it  was  now  almost  nightfall.  "Never  mind  15 
our  son,"  cried  my  wife ;  "  depend  upon  it  he  knows 
what  he  is  about.  I'll  warrant  we'll  never  see  him 
sell  his  hen  on  a  rainy  day.  I  have  seen  him  buy 
such  bargains  as  would  amaze  one.  But,  as  I  live, 
yonder  comes  Moses,  without  a  horse,  and  the  box  at  20 
his  back." 

As  she  spoke,  Moses  came  slowly  on  foot,  and  sweat- 
ing under  the  deal  box,  which  he  had  strapped  round 
his  shoulders  like  a  peddler.  "  Welcome,  welcome, 
Moses ;  well,  my  boy,  what  have  you  brought  us  from  25 
the  fair  ?  "  —  "I  have  brought  you  myself,"  cried  Moses 
with  a  sly  look  and  resting  the  box  on  the  dresser.  — 
"Ah,  Moses,"  cried  my  wife,  "that  we  know,  but 
where    is    the   horse?"  —  "I   have   sold   him,"   cried 


-*g  118    Qh- 

Moses,  "  for  three  pounds  five  shillings  and  twopence." 
—  "  Well  done,  my  good  boy,"  returned  she ;  "  I  knew 
you  would  touch  them  off.  Between  ourselves,  three 
pounds  five  shillings  and  twopence  is  no  bad  day's 
5  work.  Come,  let  us  have  it,  then."  —  "I  have  brought 
back  no  money,"  cried  Moses  again.  "  I  have  laid  it 
all  out  in  a  bargain,  and  here  it  is,"  pulling  out  a  bun- 
dle from  his  breast ;  "  here  they  are,  a  gross  of  green 
spectacles  with  silver  rims  and  shagreen  cases."  — 
10  "A  gross  of  green  spectacles ! "  repeated  my  wife  in  a 
faint  voice.  "  And  you  have  parted  with  the  colt  and 
brought  us  back  nothing  but  a  gross  of  paltry,  green 
spectacles !  "  —  u  Dear  mother,"  cried  the  boy,  "  why 
won't  you  listen  to  reason  ?  I  had  them  a  dead  bar- 
is  gain  or  I  should  not  have  bought  them.  The  silver 
rims  alone  will  sell  for  double  the  money."  —  "A  fig 
for  the  silver  rims !  "  cried  my  wife.  "  I  dare  say  they 
won't  sell  for  above  half  the  money  at  the  rate  of 
broken  silver,  five  shillings  an  ounce."  —  "You  need 
20  be  under  no  uneasiness,"  cried  I,  "  about  selling  the 
rims.  They  are  not  worth  sixpence,  for  I  perceive 
they  are  only  copper  varnished  over."  —  "What!" 
cried  my  wife,  "  not  silver !  the  rims  not  silver ! "  — 
"No,"  cried  I,  "no  more  silver  than  your  saucepan." 
25  —  "  And  so,"  returned  she,  "  we  have  parted  with  the 
colt,  and  have  only  a  gross  of  green  spectacles  with 
copper  rims  and  shagreen  cases !  The  blockhead  has 
been  imposed  upon,  and  should  have  known  his  com- 
pany better."  —  "There,  my  dear,"  cried  I,  "you  are 


-»9  1  19  8«- 

wrong ;  he   should  not  have  known  them  at  all."  — 
"The  idiot!"  returned  she,  "to  bring  me  such  stuff! 
If  I  had  them  I  would  throw  them  into  the  fire."  — 
"  There  again  you  are  wrong,  my  dear,"  said  I,  "  for 
though  they  be  copper  we  will  keep  them  by  us,  as  5 
copper  spectacles,  you  know,  are  better  than  nothing." 
By  this  time  the  unfortunate  Moses  was  undeceived. 
He  now  saw  that  he  had  indeed  been  imposed  upon 
by  a  prowling  sharper,  who  had  marked  him  for  an 
easy  prey.     I,  therefore,  asked  the  circumstances  of  10 
his  deception.     He  sold  the  horse,  it  seems,  and  walked 
the  fair  in  search  of  another.     A  reverend  looking  man 
brought  him  to  a  tent  under  pretense  of  having  one  to 
sell.     "  Here,"  continued  Moses,  "  we  met  another  man, 
very  well  dressed,  who  desired  to  borrow  twenty  pounds  15 
upon  these,  saying  that  he  wanted  money,  and  would 
dispose  of  them  for  a  third  of  the  value.     The  first 
gentleman,  who  pretended  to  be  my  friend,  whispered 
to  me  to  buy  them,  and  cautioned  me  not  to  let  so  good 
an  offer  pass.     I  sent  for  Mr.  Flamborough,  and  they  20 
talked  him  up  as  finely  as  they  did  me,  and  so  at  last 
we  were  persuaded  to  buy  the  two  gross  between  us." 

From  "  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield" 


-*0  120  8*- 

THE   VILLAGE   PREACHER. 
OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 

Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft,  at  evening's  close, 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose ; 
There,  as  I  pass'd  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 
The  mingling  notes  came  soften'd  from  below ; 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milkmaid  sung, 
The  sober  herd  that  low'd  to  meet  their  young ; 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool, 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school ; 
The  watch-dog's  voice  that  bay'd  the  whispering  wind. 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind ; 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade, 
And  fill'd  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 

But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail, 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale, 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  foot-way  tread, 
But  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled,  — 
All  but  yon  widow'd,  solitary  thing, 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring : 
She,  wretched  matron,  forced  in  age,  for  bread, 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread, 
To  pick  her  wintry  fagot  from  the  thorn, 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn ; 
She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 


-»8  121  8«- 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden-flower  grows  wild ; 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year ; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wish'd  to  change  his  place ; 
Unskilful  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power 
By  doctrines  fashion' d  to  the  varying  hour ; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learn'd  to  prize, 
More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 

His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train, 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain ; 
The  long  remember'd  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast. 
The  ruin'd  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claim'd  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allow'd ; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talk'd  the  night  away; 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shoulder'd  his  crutch,  and  show'd  how  fields  were  won. 

Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learn'd  to 
glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe ; 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 


Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  lean'd  to  Virtue's  side : 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watch' d  and  wept,  he  pray'd  and  felt  for  all ; 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries, 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay, 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
His  looks  adorn'd  the  venerable  place ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevail' d  with  double  sway, 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remain'd  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 
With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran ; 
E'en  children  follow' d  with  endearing  wile, 
And  pluck'd  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's  smile. 

His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  express'd, 
Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distress' d ; 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 
As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread. 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

From  "  The  Deserted  Village." 


-*6  123  &- 


CASTLES    IN    SPAIN. 


GEORGE  WILLIAM   CURTIS. 


George  William  Curtis  was  born  at  Providence,  R.  I.,  on 
the  24th  of  February,  1824.  He  received  his  early  education  at 
Jamaica  Plain,  Mass. 

The  Curtis  family  went  to  New  York  City  when  George  was 
fifteen  years  old,  and  he  spent  a  year  in  the  counting  office  of  a 
merchant. 

Three  years  later  George  and  his  brother  went  to  Brook 
Farm,  in  West  Roxbury,  Mass.,  where  some  literary  men  had 
formed  a  community.  They  spent 
two  years  there,  studying,  and  en- 
joying the  outdoor  life. 

After  a  winter  at  home  they  went 
to  Concord,  working  on  a  farm  half 
the  day,  and  spending  the  remaining 
hours  in  study.  Mr.  Curtis  recalled 
that  season  in  these  words :  — 

"The  soft,  sunny  spring  in  the 
silent  Concord  meadows,  where  I  sat 
in  the  great,  cool  barn  through  the 
long,  still,  golden  afternoons  and 
read  the  history  of  Rome." 

He  had  already  become  acquainted  with  Mr.  Emerson,  and 
became  a  member  of  a  club  where  he  met  Hawthorne,  Thoreau, 
and  Alcott.  It  was  at  this  time  that  Thoreau  built  his  hut,  and 
the  Curtis  brothers  helped  to  raise  it. 

Mr.  Curtis  sailed  for  Europe  in  1846,  and  spent  four  years  in 
traveling  about  Italy,  France,  Germany,  and  Palestine.  On  his 
return  his  first  book,  "  Nile  Notes  of  a  Howadji,"  was  published, 
and  he  began  to  deliver  lectures.  He  became  connected  with 
the  publishing  house  of  Harper  &  Brothers,  and  also  wrote  for 
the  "New  York  Tribune"  and  "Putnam's  Monthly."     In  this 


25 


30 


-*e  124  8f 

last-named  magazine  appeared  his  "  Potiphar  Papers  "  and  "  Prue 
and  I."  They  were  afterward  published  in  book  form  and  met 
with  success.  The  charm  of  the  latter  book  is  as  fresh  to-day  as 
when  it  was  first  written. 
5  For  many  years,  Curtis  held  the  position  of  editor  of  "  Harper's 
Weekly,"  and  was  engaged  in  writing  and  lecturing  until  his 
death  in  August,  1892. 

I  am  the  owner  of  great  estates.     Many  of  them  lie 
in  the  west,  but  the  greater  part  are  in  Spain.     You 

10  may  see  my  western  possessions  any  evening  at  sun- 
set, when  their  spires  and  battlements  flash  against  the 
horizon. 

It  gives  me  a  feeling  of  pardonable  importance,  as  a 
proprietor,  that  they  are  visible,  to  my  eyes  at  least, 

15  from  any  part  of  the  world  in  which  I  chance  to  be. 
In  my  long  voyage  around  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  to 
India  (the  only  voyage  I  ever  made,  when  I  was  a  boy 
and  a  supercargo),  if  I  fell  homesick,  or  sank  into  a  rev- 
ery  of  all  the  pleasant  homes  I  had  left  behind,  I  had 

20  but  to  wait  until  sunset,  and  then  looking  toward  the 
west,  I   beheld   my  clustering   pinnacles  and  towers, 
brightly  burnished,  as  if  to  salute  and  welcome  me. 
So,  in  the  city,  if  I  get  vexed  and  wearied,  and  can- 
not find  my  wonted  solace  in  sallying  forth  at  dinner- 

25  time  to  contemplate  the  gay  world  of  youth  and  beauty, 
I  go  quietly  up  to  the  house-top,  toward  evening,  and 
refresh  myself  with  a  distant  prospect  of  my  estates. 
And  if  I  sometimes  wonder  at  such  moments  whether 
I  shall  find  those  realms  as  fair  as  they  appear,  I  am 

30  suddenly  reminded  that  the  night  air  may  be  noxious, 


-»8  125   8«- 

and,  descending,  I  enter  the  little  parlor  where  my 
wife,  Prue,  sits  stitching,  and  surprise  that  precious 
woman  by  exclaiming  with  the  poet's  enthusiasm: 

"  Thought  would  destroy  their  Paradise 
No  more  ;  —  where  ignorance  is  bliss  5 

'T  is  folly  to  be  wise." 

Columbus  also  had  possessions  in  the  west ;  and  as  I 
read  aloud  the  romantic  story  of  his  life,  my  voice 
quivers  when  I  come  to  the  point  in  which  it  is  related 
that  sweet  odors  of  the  land  mingled  with  the  sea  air,  10 
as  the  admiral's  fleet  approached  the  shores ;  that  trop- 
ical birds  flew  out  and  fluttered  around  the  ships,  glit- 
tering in  the  sun,  the  gorgeous  promises  of  the  new 
country;  that  boughs,  perhaps  with  blossoms  not  all 
decayed,  floated  out  to  welcome  the  strange  wood  from  is 
which  the  craft  was  hollowed.  Then  I  cannot  restrain 
myself.  I  think  of  the  gorgeous  visions  I  have  seen 
before  I  have  even  undertaken  the  journey  to  the  west, 
and  I  cry  aloud  to  Prue :  — 

"  What  sun-bright  birds  and  gorgeous  blossoms  and  20 
celestial  odors  will  float   out   to  us,  my  Prue,  as  we 
approach  our  western  possessions ! " 

The  placid  Prue    raises   her  eyes   to   mine  with   a 
reproof   so  delicate  that   it  could   not  be  trusted   to 
words;  and  after  a  moment  she  resumes  her  knitting  25 
and  I  proceed. 

These  are  my  western  estates,  but  my  finest  castles 
are  in  Spain.     It  is  a  country  famously  romantic,  and 


->6  126  §h- 

my  castles  are  all  of  perfect  proportions  and  appro- 
priately set  in  the  most  picturesque  situations.  I  have 
never  been  to  Spain  myself,  but  I  have  naturally  con- 
versed much  with  travelers  to  that  country.  The  wisest 
5  of  them  told  me  that  there  were  more  holders  of  real 
estate  in  Spain  than  in  any  other  region  he  had  ever 
heard  of,  and  they  are  all  great  proprietors.  Every 
one  of  them  possesses  a  multitude  of  the  stateliest 
castles.  From  conversation  with  them  you  easily  gather 
10  that  each  one  considers  his  own  castles  much  the  largest 
and  in  the  loveliest  positions.  And  after  I  heard  this 
said,  I  verified  it  by  discovering  that  all  my  immediate 
neighbors  in  the  city  were  great  Spanish  proprietors. 

One  day,  as  I  raised  my  head  from  entering  some 
15  long  and  tedious  accounts  in  my  books,  and  began  to 
reflect  that  the  quarter  was  expiring,  and  that  I  must 
begin  to  prepare  the  balance  sheet,  I  observed  my  sub- 
ordinate in  office,  but  not  in  years  (for  the  poor  old 
clerk  will  never  see  sixty  again !)  leaning  on  his  hand, 
20  and  much  abstracted. 

"  Are  you  not  well  ?  "  asked  I. 

"  Perfectly,  but  I  was  just  building  a  castle  in  Spain," 
said  he. 

I  looked  at  his  rusty  coat,  his  faded  hands,  his  sad 
25  eye,  and  white  hair  for  a  moment  in  great  surprise,  and 
then  inquired :  — 

"  Is  it  possible  that  you  own  property  there  too  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head  silently;  and  still  leaning  on  his 
hand,  and  with  an  expression  in  his  eye  as  if  he  were 


-*e  127  9*- 

looking  upon  the  most  fertile  estate  of  Andalusia,  he 
went  on  making  his  plans :  laying  out  his  gardens,  I 
suppose,  building  terraces  for  the  vines,  determining  a 
library  with  a  southern  exposure,  and  resolving  which 
should  be  the  tapestried  chamber.  s 

"What  a  singular  whim!"  thought  I  as  I  watched 
him  and  filled  up  a  check  for  four  hundred  dollars,  my 
quarterly  salary,  "  that  a  man  who  owns  castles  in  Spain 
should  be  a  bookkeeper  at  nine  hundred  dollars  a  year !  "  10 

It  is  not  easy  for  me  to  say  how  I  know  so  much, 
as  I  certainly  do,  about  my  castles  in  Spain.  The  sun 
always  shines  upon  them.  They  stand  lofty  and  fair 
in  a  luminous,  golden  atmosphere,  —  a  little  hazy  and 
dreamy,  perhaps,  like  the  Indian  summer,  but  in  which  15 
no  gales  blow  and  there  are  no  tempests.  All  the  sub- 
lime mountains  and  beautiful  valleys  and  soft  landscape 
that  I  have  not  yet  seen  are  to  be  found  in  the  grounds. 
They  command  a  noble  view  of  the  Alps;  so  fine, 
indeed,  that  I  should  be  quite  content  with  the  pros-  20 
pect  of  them  from  the  highest  tower  of  my  castle,  and 
not  care  to  go  to  Switzerland. 

The  neighboring  ruins,  too,  are  as  picturesque  as  those 
of  Italy.  The  rich  gloom  of  my  orange  groves  is  gilded 
by  fruit  as  brilliant  of  complexion  and  exquisite  of  25 
flavor  as  any  that  ever  dark-eyed  Sorrento  girls,  look- 
ing over  the  high  plastered  walls  of  southern  Italy,  hand 
to  the  youthful  travelers,  climbing  on  donkeys  up  the 
narrow  lane  beneath. 


h8  128  8<- 

The  Nile  flows  through  my  grounds.  The  desert  lies 
upon  their  edge,  and  Damascus  stands  in  my  garden. 
From  the  windows  of  those  castles  look  the  beautiful 
women  whom  I  have  never  seen,  whose  portraits  the 

5  poets  have  painted.  They  wait  for  me  there,  and  chiefly 
the  fair-haired  child,  lost  to  my  eyes  so  long  ago,  now 
bloomed  into  an  impossible  beauty.  In  the  long,  sum- 
mer mornings  the  children  that.  I  never  had,  play  in  the 
gardens  that  I  never  planted.     I  hear  their  sweet  voices 

10  sounding  low  and  far  away,  calling,  "  Father !  father !  " 
I  see  the  lost,  fair-haired  girl,  grown  now  into  a  woman, 
descending  the  stately  stairs  of  my  castle  in  Spain, 
stepping  out  upon  the  lawn,  and  playing  with  those 
children.    They  bound  away  together  down  the  garden ; 

15  but  those  voices  linger,  this  time  airily  calling,  "  Mother ! 
mother ! " 

But  there  is  a  stranger  magic  than  this  in  my  Spanish 
estates.  The  lawny  slopes  on  which,  when  a  child,  I 
played  in  my  father's  old  country  place,  which  was  sold 

20  when  he  failed,  are  all  there,  and  not  a  flower  faded, 
nor  a  blade  of  grass  sere.  The  green  leaves  have  not 
fallen  from  the  spring  woods  of  half  a  century  ago,  and 
a  gorgeous  autumn  has  blazed  undimmed  for  fifty  years 
among  the  trees  I  remember. 

26  Chestnuts  are  not  especially  sweet  to  my  palate  now, 
but  those  with  which  I  used  to  prick  my  fingers  when 
gathering  them  in  New  Hampshire  woods  are  exquisite 
as  ever  to  my  taste  when  I  think  of  eating  them  in 
Spain.     I  never  ride  horseback  now  at  home :  but  in 


-*8  129  8*- 

Spain,  when  I  think  of  it,  I  bound  over  all  the  fences 
in  the  country,  bareback  upon  the  wildest  horses. 

Yes ;  and  in  those  castles  in  Spain,  Prue  is  not  the 
placid  helpmate  with  whom  you  are  acquainted,  but 
her  face  has  a  bloom  which  we  both  remember,  and  5 
her  movement  a  grace  which  my  Spanish  swans  emu- 
late, and  her  voice  a  music  sweeter  than  orchestras  dis- 
course. She  is  always  there  what  she  seemed  to  me 
when  I  fell  in  love  with  her  many  and  many  years  ago. 

So,  when  I  meditate  my  Spanish  castles,  I  see  Prue  10 
in  them  as  my  heart  saw  her  standing  by  her  father's 
door.     "Age  cannot  wither  her."     There  is  a  magic  in 
the  Spanish  air  that  paralyzes  Time.     He  glides  by 
unnoticed  and  unnoticing.     I  greatly  admire  the  Alps, 
which  I  see  so  distinctly  from  my  Spanish  windows;  15 
I  delight  in  the  taste  of  the  southern  fruit  that  ripens 
upon  my  terraces ;   I  enjoy  the  pensive  shade  of  the 
Italian  ruins  in  my  gardens ;  I  like  to  shoot  crocodiles, 
and  talk  with  the  Sphinx  upon  the  shores  of  the  IS^ile 
flowing  through  my  domain ;  but  I  would  resign  all  20 
these  forever  rather  than  part  with  that  Spanish  por- 
trait of  Prue  for  a  day. 

From  "Prue  and  I." 
By  permission  of  Harper  and  Brothers. 


THREE   HEROINES. 
AGNES  REPPLIER. 

To  Spain  belongs  Augustina,  the  Maid  of  Saragossa ; 
to  England,  brave  Mary  Ambree ;  and  to  America, 
Molly  Pitcher,  the  stout-hearted  heroine  of  Monmouth ; 
and  these  three  women  won  for  themselves  honor  and 

«  renown  by  the  same  valorous  exploits. 

Augustina  is  the  most  to  be  envied,  for  her  praises 
have  been  sung  by  a  great  poet ;  Mary  Ambree  has 
a  noble  ballad  to  perpetuate  her  fame ;  Molly  Pitcher 
is  still  without   the  tribute  of  a  verse  to  remind  her 

10  countrymen  occasionally  of  her  splendid  courage  in 
the  field. 

The  Spanish  girl  was  of  humble  birth,  young,  poor, 
and  very  handsome.  When  Saragossa  was.  besieged  by 
the  French,  during   the  Peninsular  War,  she  carried 

is  food  every  afternoon  to  the  soldiers  who  were  defend- 
ing the  batteries.  One  day  the  attack  was  so  fierce, 
and  the  fire  so  deadly,  that  by  the  gate  of  Portillo 
not  a  single  man  was  left  alive  to  repulse  the  terrible 
enemy. 

20  When  Augustina  reached  the  spot  with  her  basket 
of  coarse  and  scanty  provisions,  she  saw  the  last  gunner 
fall  bleeding  on  the  walls.  Not  for  an  instant  did  she 
hesitate  ;  but  springing  over  a  pile  of  dead  bodies,  she 
snatched   the  match   from   his  stiffening   fingers  and 

26  fired  the  gun  herself. 


-»6  131  8«- 

Then  calling  on  her  countrymen  to  rally  their 
broken  ranks,  she  led  them  back  so  unflinchingly  to 
the  charge  that  the  French  were  driven  from  the  gate 
they  had  so  nearly  captured,  and  the  honor  of  Spain 
was  saved.  5 

For  the  story  of  Mary  Ambree  we  must  leave  the 
chroniclers,  who  to  their  own  loss  and  shame  never 
mention  her  at  all,  and  take  refuge  with  the  poets. 
From  them  we  learn  all  we  need  to  know ;  and  it  is 
quickly  told.  :  .  10 

Her  lover  was  slain  treacherously  in  the  war  between 
Spain  and  Holland,  the  English  being  then  allies  of  the 
Dutch ;  and,  vowing  to  avenge  his  death,  she  put  on 
his  armor  and  marched  to  the  siege  of  Ghent,  where 
she  fought  with  reckless  courage  on  its  walls.  is 

Fortune  favors  the  brave,  and  wherever  the  maiden 
turned  her  arms  the  enemy  was  repulsed,  until  at  last 
the  Spanish  soldiers  vied  with  the  English  in  admira- 
tion of  this  valorous  foe.  .  .  . 

And  now  for  Molly  Pitcher,  who,  unsung  and  almost  20 
unremembered,  should  nevertheless  share  in  the  honors 
heaped  so  liberally  upon  the  English  and  Spanish  hero- 
ines. "  A  red-haired,  freckle-faced  young  Irish  woman," 
without  beauty  and  without  distinction,  she  was  the 
newly  wedded  wife  of  an  artilleryman  in  Washington's  a 
little  army.  On  June  28,  1778,  was  fought  the  battle 
of  Monmouth,  famous  for  the  admirable  tactics  by 
which  Washington  regained  the  advantages  lost  through 
the  negligence  of  General  Charles  Lee. 


-»8   132  8«- 

It  was  a  Sunday  morning,  close  and  sultry.  As  the 
day  advanced,  the  soldiers  on  both  sides  suffered  terri- 
bly from  that  fierce,  unrelenting  heat  in  which  America 
rivals  India.  The  thermometer  stood  at  96°  in  the 
5  shade.  Men  fell  dead  in  their  ranks  without  a  wound, 
smitten  by  sunstroke;  and  the  sight  of  them  filled 
their  comrades  with  dismay. 

Molly  Pitcher,  regardless  of  everything  save  the  an- 
guish of  the  sweltering,  thirsty  troops,  carried  buckets 

10  of  water  from  a  neighboring  spring  and  passed  them 
along  the  line.  Backward  and  forward  she  trudged, 
this  strong,  brave,  patient  young  woman,  while  the 
sweat  poured  down  her  freckled  face,  and  her  bare 
arms  blistered  in  the  sun. 

is  She  was  a  long  time  in  reaching  her  husband,  —  so 
many  soldiers  begged  for  drink  as  she  toiled  by,  —  but 
at  last  she  saw  him,  parched,  grimy,  and  spent  with 
heat,  and  she  quickened  her  lagging  steps.  Then  sud- 
denly a  ball  whizzed  past,  and  he  fell  dead  by  the  side 

20  of  his  gun  before  ever  the  coveted  water  had  touched 
his  blackened  lips. 

Molly  dropped  her  bucket  and  for  one  dazed  moment 
stood  staring  at  the  bleeding  corpse.  Only  for  a  mo- 
ment, for,  amid  the  turmoil  of  battle,  she  heard  the 

25  order  given  to  drag  her  husband's  cannon  from  the 
field. 

The  words  roused  her  to  life  and  purpose.  She 
seized  the  rammer  from  the  grass  and  hurried  to  the 
gunner's  post.     There  was  nothing  strange  in  the  work 


-»6   133  8«- 

to  her.     She  was  too  well  versed  in  the  ways  of  war 
for  either  ignorance  or  alarm. 

Strong,  skilful,  and  fearless,  she  stood  by  the  weapon 
and  directed  its  deadly  fire  until  the  fall  of  Monckton 
turned  the  tide  of  victory.  The  British  troops  under  5 
Clinton  were  beaten  back  after  a  desperate  struggle, 
the  Americans  took  possession  of  the  field,  and  the 
battle  of  Monmouth  was  won. 

On  the  following  day  poor  Molly,  no  longer  a  furi- 
ous Amazon,  but  sad-faced,  with  swollen  eyes  and  a  10 
scanty  bit  of  crape  pinned  on  her  bosom,  was  presented 
to  Washington,  and  received  a  sergeant's  commission 
with  half  pay  for  life. 

It  is  said  that  the  French  officers,  then  fighting  for 
the  freedom  of  the  colonies,  that  is,  against  the  English,  is 
were  so  delighted  with  her  courage  that  they  added  to 
this  reward  a  cocked  hat  full  of  gold  pieces,  and  chris- 
tened her  "  La  Capitaine." 

What  befell  her  in  after  years  has  never  been  told. 
She  lived  and  died  obscurely,  and  her  name  has  well-  20 
nigh  been  forgotten  in  the  land  she  served.  But  the 
memory  of  brave  deeds  can  never  wholly  perish,  and 
Molly  Pitcher  has  won  for  herself  a  niche  in  the  Temple 
of  Fame,  where  her  companions  are  fair  Mary  Ambree 
and  the  dauntless  Maid  of  Saragossa.  25 


-48  134  8«- 

ENSIGN    EPPS,    THE    COLOR-BEARER. 
JOHN  BOYLE   O'REILLY. 

John  Boyle  O'Reilly  was  born  in  Ireland,  June  28,  1844. 
He  began  life  as  a  type-setter,  and  later  went  to  England  and 
became  a  reporter  for  various  newspapers.  Returning  to  Ireland, 
he  joined  the  10th  Hussars,  with  the  secret  intention  of  spread- 

5  ing  tfre  Irish  cause  among  the  soldiers.  His  purpose  was  dis- 
covered, and  he  was  sentenced  to  be  shot.  This  sentence  was 
commuted,  and  he  was  sent  to  the  English  prison  colony  in  Aus- 
tralia. From  there  he  escaped  in  an  open  boat  and  was  picked 
up  at  sea  by  Captain  Giff ord  of  the  American  ship,  "  Gazelle," 

io  and  brought  to  America.     He  wrote  and  lectured  in  this  country, 
and  became  the  editor  of  the  "  Boston  Pilot." 

Among  his  works  are  "  Songs  of  the  Southern  Seas,"  "  Songs, 
Legends,  and  Ballads,"  and  "In  Bohemia."  He  died  in  Hull, 
Mass.,  Aug.  10,  1890. 

Ensign  Epps,  at  the  battle  of  Flanders, 
•     Sowed  a  seed  of  glory  and  duty, 

That  flowers  and  flames  in  height  and  beauty 
Like  a  crimson  lily  with  heart  of  gold, 
To-day,  when  the  wars  of  Ghent  are  old, 
And  buried  as  deep  as  their  dead  commanders. 

Ensign  Epps  was  the  color-bearer  — 

No  matter  on  which  side,  Philip  or  Earl ; 

Their  cause  was  the  shell  —  his  deed  was  the  pearl. 

Scarce  more  than  a  lad,  he  had  been  a  sharer 

That  day  in  the  wildest  work  of  the  field. 

He  was  wounded  and  spent,  and  the  fight  was  lost ; 

His  comrades  were  slain,  or  a  scattered  host. 


-»6  135  9«- 

But  stainless  and  scathless  out  of  the  strife 
He  had  carried  his  colors,  safer  than  life. 
By  the  river's  brink,  without  weapon  or  shield, 
He  faced  the  victors.     The  thick  heart-mist 
He  dashed  from  his  eyes,  and  the  silk  he  kissed 
Ere  he  held  it  aloft  in  the  setting  sun, 
As  proudly  as  if  the  fight  had  been  won, 
And  he  smiled  when  they  ordered  him  to  yield. 

Ensign  Epps,  with  his  broken  blade, 

Cut  the  silk  from  the  gilded  staff, 

Which  he  poised  like  a  spear  till  the  charge  was  made. 

And  hurled  at  the  leader  with  a  laugh. 

Then  round  his  breast,  like  the  scarf  of  his  love, 

He  tied  the  colors  his  heart  above, 

And  plunged  in  his  armor  into  the  tide, 

And  there,  in  his  dress  of  honor,  died. 


Where  are  the  lessons  ye  kinglings  teach  ? 

And  what  is  the  text  of  your  proud  commanders  ? 

Out  of  the  centuries,  heroes  reach 

With  the  scroll  of  a  deed,  with  the  word  of  a  story, 

Of  one  man's  truth  and  of  all  men's  glory, 

Like  Ensign  Epps  at  the  battle  of  Flanders. 


-»8  136  &- 


THE    BATTLE    OF    LANDEN. 


[Abridged.] 
THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY. 

Thomas  Babington  Macaulay  was  born  in  England  on  the 
25th  of  October,  1800. 

He  gave  proof  of  a  decided  taste  for  literature  when  a  lit- 
tle child.     From  the  time  he  was  three  years  old  he  spent  the 
5  greater  part  of  his  time  in  reading,  and  liked  to  lie  on  a  rug 

before  the  fire  with  his  book  before 
him.  He  was  a  quaint  little  fellow 
and  talked  in  the  language  of  the 
books  which  he  read. 

Before  he  was  eight  years  old  he 
had  written  a  history  and  a  romance. 
His  early  education  was  received 
in  private  schools,  and  he  entered 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  when 
he  was  eighteen  years  old.     He  en- 
joyed his  college  life,  and  succeeded 
in   gaining   a  fellowship  of  three 
hundred   pounds   and   a  prize   for 
an  essay. 
20       After  his  graduation  he  began  to  practice  law  in  London,  but 
had  little  business,  and  spent  more  time  at  the  House  of  Com- 
mons than  in  the  court. 

When  he  was  twenty-four  he  made  a  speech  which  surprised 
the  audience  by  its  eloquence  and  was  praised  in  the  "  Edinburgh 
25  Review."  The  next  year  this  magazine  published  an  essay  on 
Milton  written  by  Macaulay,  which  made  the  young  man  famous. 
He  was  invited  to  dinners  and  honored  by  the  most  distin- 
guished persons  in  London.  His  gift  as  a  brilliant  and  entertain- 
ing talker  increased  his  popularity. 


-»8  137  Br- 
ill 1830  he  became  a  member  of  the  House  of  Commons  and 
distinguished  himself  by  his  eloquent  speeches.     He  continued 
to  contribute  to  the  "  Edinburgh  Beview,"  and  took  an  active  part 
in  the  question  of  slavery  in  India. 

A  few  years  later  he  was  sent  by  the  Government  to  India,    5 
where  his  services  proved  of   great  value.     One  of  his  sisters 
accompanied  him,  and  he  remained  there  four  years. 

On  his  return  he  became  a  member  of  Parliament,  and  for  two 
years  was  Secretary  of  War.  His  duties  were  light,  and  he  en- 
gaged in  literary  work.  He  became  deeply  interested  in  writing  10 
a  history  of  England,  and  retired  to  private  life  in  order  to  devote 
his  time  to  this  work.  He  worked  slowly  and  carefully,  sparing 
no  pains  in  searching  for  material. 

The  first  two  volumes,  published  in  1849,  had  an  enormous 
sale,  both  in  England  and  America.     Three  more  volumes  were  15 
completed  seven  years  later.     This  history  has  been  published 
in  a  dozen  different   languages,  and  Macaulay  received  many 
flattering  marks  of  admiration  and  respect. 

After  resigning  his  seat  in  Parliament  he  went  to  Holly  Lodge, 
Kensington.  It  was  a  delightful  house,  with  a  large  library  and  20 
a  garden.  Macaulay  was  very  happy  there.  On  his  return  to 
Holly  Lodge,  after  a  trip  through  Germany  and  Italy,  he  writes : 
"  My  garden  is  really  charming.  The  flowers  are  less  brilliant 
than  when  I  went  away,  but  the  turf  is  perfect  emerald.  All  the 
countries  through  which  I  have  been  traveling  could  not  show  25 
such  a  carpet  of  soft,  rich,  green  herbage  as  mine."  He  died  on 
the  28th  of  December,  1859,  and  was  buried  in  the  Poets'  Corner 
at  Westminster  Abbey. 

Though  the  French  army  in  the  Netherlands  had 
been  weakened  by  the  departure  of  forces,  and  though  30 
the  allied  army  was  daily  strengthened  by  the  arrival 
of  fresh  troops,  Luxembourg  still  had  a  superiority  of 
force  ;  and  that  superiority  he  increased  by  an  adroit 
stratagem. 


-»S  138  9* 

He  marched  towards  Liege,  and  made  as  if  he  were 
about  to  form  the  siege  of  that  city.  William  was 
uneasy,  and  the  more  uneasy  because  he  knew  there 
was  a  French  party  among  the  inhabitants.     He  quitted 

5  his  position  near  Louvain,  advanced  to  Nether  Hespen, 
and  encamped  there,  with  the  river  Gette  in  his  rear. 

This  was  exactly  what  General  Luxembourg  had  ex- 
pected and  desired.  He  turned  his  back  on  the  for- 
tress, which  had  hitherto  seemed  to  be  his  object,  and 

10  hastened  toward  the  Gette. 

William,  Prince  of  Orange,  who  had  but  fifty  thou- 
sand left  in  his  camp,  was  alarmed  by  learning  from 
his  scouts  that  the  French  general,  with  near  eighty 
thousand,  was  close  at  hand. 

15  It  was  still  in  the  king's  power,  by  a  hasty  retreat, 
to  put  the  narrow  but  deep  waters  of  the  Gette  be- 
tween his  army  and  the  enemy.  But  the  site  which 
he  occupied  was  strong ;  and  it  could  easily  be  made 
still  stronger.     He  set  all  his  troops  to  work.     Ditches 

20  were  dug,  mounds  thrown  up,  palisades  fixed  in  the 

earth,  and  the  king  trusted  that  he  should  be  able  to 

repel  the  attack  even  of  a  force  greatly  outnumbering 

his  own. 

•Luxembourg,     however,    was    determined     to    try 

25  whether  even  this  position  could  be  maintained  against 
the  superior  numbers  and  the  impetuous  valor  of  his 
soldiers.  Soon  after  sunrise  the  roar  of  the  cannon 
began  to  be  heard.  William's  batteries  did  much  exe- 
cution before  the  French  artillery  could  be  so  placed 


-*8  139  8<- 

as  to  return  fire.  It  was  eight  o'clock  before  the  close 
fighting  began.  The  village  of  Neerwinden  was  re- 
garded by  both  commanders  as  the  point  on  which 
everything  depended. 

There  an  attack  was  made  by  the  French  left  wing,   5 
commanded  by  Montchevreuil,  a  veteran  officer  of  high 
reputation,  and  by  Berwick,  who,  though  young,  was  fast 
rising  to  a  high  place  among  the  captains  of  his  time. 

Berwick  led  the  onset  and  forced  his  way  into  the 
village,  but  was  soon  driven  out  again  with  a  terrible  10 
carnage.  His  followers  fled  or  perished;  he,  while 
trying  to  rally  them,  was  surrounded  by  foes.  He  con- 
cealed his  white  cockade  and  hoped  to  be  able,  by  the 
help  of  his  native  tongue,  to  pass  himself  off  as  an 
officer  of  the  English  army.  But  his  face  was  recog-  is 
nized  by  one  of  his  mother's  brothers,  who  held  on  that 
day  the  command  of  a  brigade.  A  hurried  embrace 
was  exchanged  between  the  kinsmen,  and  the  uncle 
conducted  the  nephew  to  William. 

By  this  time,  the  French,  who  had  been  driven  in  20 
confusion  out  of  Neerwinden,  had  been  reinforced  by  a 
division  and  came  gallantly  back  to  the  attack.  This 
second  conflict  was  long  and  bloody.  The  assailants 
again  forced  entrance  into  the  village.  They  were 
driven  out  with  tremendous  slaughter,  and  showed  25 
little  inclination  to  return  to  the  charge. 

Meanwhile  the  battle  had  been  raging  all  along  the 
intrenchments  of  the  allied  army.  Again  and  again 
Luxembourg  brought  up  his  troops  within  pistol-shot 


-*8  140  8«- 

of  the  breastwork,  but  he  could  bring  them  no  nearer. 
At  length  Luxembourg  formed  his  decision.  A  last 
attempt  must  be  made  to  carry  Neerwinden ;  and  the 
invincible  household  troops,  the  conquerors  of   Stein- 

5  kirk,  must  lead  the  way. 

The  household  troops  came  on  in  a  manner  worthy 
of  their  long  and  terrible  renown.  A  third  time  Neer- 
winden was  taken.  A  third  time  William  tried  to 
retake  it.     At  the  head  of  some  English  regiments  he 

10  charged  the  guards  of  Louis,  the  French  king,  with 
such  fury  that,  for  the  first  time  in  the  memory  of  the 
oldest  warrior,  that  far-famed  band  gave  way.  It  was 
only  by  strenuous  exertions  that  the  broken  ranks 
were  rallied. 

15  A  little  after  four  in  the  afternoon  the  whole  line 
gave  way.  All  was  havoc  and  confusion.  The  Duke 
of  Ormond  was  struck  down  in  the  press ;  and  in  an- 
other moment  he  would  have  been  a  corpse,  had  not 
a  rich  diamond  on  his  finger  caught  the  eye  of  one  of 

20  the  French  guards,  who  justly  thought  that  the  owner 
of  such  a  jewel  would  be  a  valuable  prisoner.  The 
duke's  life  was  saved;  and  he  was  speedily  exchanged 
for  Berwick. 

It  was  only  on  such  occasions  as  this  that  the  whole 

25  greatness  of  William's  character  appeared.  Amidst 
the  rout  and  uproar,  while  arms  and  standards  were 
flung  away,  while  multitudes  of  fugitives  were  choking 
up  the  bridges  and  fords  of  the  Gette,  or  perishing  in 
its  waters,  the  king  put  himself  at  the  head  of  a  few 


->6  i4i  s<- 

brave  regiments  and  by  desperate  efforts  arrested  the     . 
progress  of  the  enemy. 

His  risk  was  greater  than  that  which  others  ran,  for 
he  could  not  be  persuaded  to  encumber  his  feeble  frame 
with  a  cuirass,  or  to  hide  the  ensigns  of  the  garter.  5 
He  thought  his  star  a  good  rallying  point  for  his  own 
troops,  and  only  smiled  when  he  was  told  that  it  was 
a  good  mark  for  the  enemy. 

Many  fell  on  his  right  hand  and  on  his  left.  Two 
led  horses,  which  in  the  field  always  followed  his  per-  10 
son,  were  struck  dead  by  cannon  shots.  One  musket 
ball  passed  through  the  curls  of  his  wig,  another 
through  his  coat,  a  third  bruised  his  side  and  tore  his 
blue  ribbon  to  tatters. 

Many  years  later,  gray-headed  old  pensioners,  who  is 
crept  about  the  arcades  and  alleys  of  Chelsea  Hospital, 
used  to  relate  how  he  charged  at  the  head  of  Gal  way's 
horse,  how  he  dismounted  four  times  to  put  heart  into 
the  infantry,  how  he  rallied  one  corps  which  seemed  to 
be  shrinking :  "  That  is  not  the  way  to  fight,  gentle-  20 
men.     You  must  stand  close  up  to  them.     Thus,  gentle- 
men, thus."    "  You  might  have  seen  him,',  an  eyewitness 
wrote, only  four  days  after  the  battle,  "with  his  sword 
in  his  hand,  throwing  himself  upon  the  enemy.     It  is 
certain  that  one  time,  among  the  rest,  he  was  seen  at  25 
the  head  of  two  English  regiments,  and  that  he  fought 
seven  with  these  two  in  sight  of  the  whole  army,  driv- 
ing  them   before   him  above  a  quarter  of   an   hour. 
Thanks  be  to  God  who  preserved  him  ! " 


■4Q  142  8«- 

The  enemy  pressed  on  him  so  close  that  it  was  with 
difficulty  that  he  at  length  made  his  way  over  the 
Gette.  A  small  body  of  brave  men  who  shared  his 
peril  to  the  last,  could  hardly  keep  off  the  pursuers  as 

5  he  crossed  the  bridge.  Never,  perhaps,  was  the  change 
which  the  progress  of  civilization  has  produced  in  the 
art  of  war  more  strikingly  illustrated  than  on  that  day. 
Ajax  beating  down  the  Trojan  leader  with  a  rock  which 
two  ordinary  men  could  scarcely  lift,  Horatius  defend- 

10  ing  the  bridge  against  an  army,  Richard  the  Lion- 
hearted  spurring  along  the  whole  Saracen  line  without 
finding  an  enemy  to  stand  his  assault,  Robert  Bruce 
crushing  with  one  blow  the  helmet  and  head  of  Sir 
Henry  Bohun  in  sight  of  the  whole  array  of  England 

15  and  Scotland,  —  such  are  the  heroes  of  a  dark  age. 

At  Landen  two  poor  sickly  beings,  who,  in  a  rude 
state  of  society,  would  have  been  regarded  as  too  puny 
to  bear  any  part  in  combats,  were  the  souls  of  two 
great  armies.     But  their  lot  had  fallen  on  a  time  when 

20  men  had  discovered  that  the  strength  of  the  muscles 
is  far  inferior  in  value  to  the  strength  of  the  mind. 

From  41  The  History  of  England.''1 


^c  143  9^ 

THE    PLANTING    OF    THE    APPLE    TREE. 
WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 
For  an  account  of  the  life  of  Bryant,  see  "  Cyr's  Third  Reader." 

Come,  let  us  plant  the  apple  tree. 
Cleave  the  tough  greensward  with  the  spade ; 
Wide  let  its  hollow  bed  be  made ; 
There  gently  lay  the  roots,  and  there 
Sift  the  dark  mould  with  kindly  care, 

And  press  it  o'er  them  tenderly, 
As  round  the  sleeping  infant's  feet, 
We  softly  fold  the  cradle-sheet ; 

So  plant  we  the  apple  tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple  tree? 
Buds,  which  the  breath  of  summer  days 
Shall  lengthen  into  leafy  sprays ; 
Boughs  where  the  thrush  with  crimson  breast, 
Shall  haunt,  and  sing,  and  hide  her  nest ; 

We  plant  upon  the  sunny  lea, 
A  shadow  for  the  noontide  hour, 
A  shelter  from  the  summer  shower, 

When  we  plant  the  apple  tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple  tree  ? 
Sweets  for  a  hundred  flowery  springs 
To  load  the  May-wind's  restless  wings, 
When,  from  the  orchard-row,  he  pours 
Its  fragrance  through  our  open  doors ; 


-»6 14-4-  e«- 

A  world  of  blossoms  for  the  bee, 
Flowers  for  the  sick  girl's  silent  room, 
For  the  glad  infant  sprigs  of  bloom, 

We  plant  with  the  apple  tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple  tree  ? 
Fruits  that  shall  swell  in  sunny  June, 
And  redden  in  the  August  noon, 
And  drop  when  gentle  airs  come  by, 
That  fan  the  blue  September  sky, 

While  children  come,  with  cries  of  glee, 
And  seek  them  where  the  fragrant  grass 
Betrays  their  bed  to  those  who  pass, 

At  the  foot  of  the  apple  tree. 

And  when,  above  this  apple  tree, 
The  winter  stars  are  quivering  bright, 
And  winds  go  howling  through  the  night, 
Girls,  whose  young  eyes  o'erflow  with  mirth, 
Shall  peel  its  fruit  by  the  cottage  hearth, 

And  guests  in  prouder  homes  shall  see, 
Heaped  with  the  grape  of  Cintra's  vine 
And  golden  orange  of  the  line 

The  fruit  of  the  apple  tree. 

The  fruitage  of  this  apple  tree 
Winds  and  our  flag  of  stripe  and  star 
Shall  bear  to  coasts  that  lie  afar, 
Where  men  shall  wonder  at  the  view 
And  ask  in  what  fair  groves  they  grew ; 


-»6  145   9«- 

And  sojourners  beyond  the  sea 
Shall  think  of  childhood's  careless  day 
And  long,  long  hours  of  summer  play, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple  tree. 

Each  year  shall  give  this  apple  tree 
A  broader  flush  of  roseate  bloom, 
A  deeper  maze  of  verdurous  gloom, 
And  loosen,  when  the  frost-clouds  lower, 
The  crisp  brown  leaves  in  thicker  shower. 

And  time  shall  waste  this  apple  tree. 
Oh,  when  its  aged  branches  throw 
Thin  shadows  on  the  ground  below, 
Shall  fraud  and  force  and  iron  will 
Oppress  the  weak  and  helpless  still  ? 

What  shall  the  tasks  of  mercy  be, 
Amid  the  toils,  the  strifes,  the  tears 
Of  those  who  live  when  length  of  years 

Is  wasting  this  apple  tree  ? 

"  Who  planted  this  old  apple  tree  ?  " 
The  children  of  that  distant  day 
Thus  to  some  aged  man  shall  say ; 
And,  gazing  on  its  mossy  stem, 
The  gray-haired  man  shall  answer  them : 

"  A  poet  of  the  land  was  he, 
Born  in  the  rude  but  good  old  times ; 
'T  is  said  he  made  some  quaint  old  rhymes 

On  planting  the  apple  tree." 


-»6  146  8<- 

A    HIGHLAND    SNOWSTORM. 

[Abridged.] 
JOHN  WILSON. 

John  Wilson,  better  known  as  "  Christopher  North,"  was  born 
at  Paisley,  Scotland,  in  1785,  and  died  in  Edinburgh  in  1854. 

He  entered  the  University  at  Glasgow  when  he  was  twelve 
years  old  and  completed  his  education  at  Oxford. 
5  After  leaving  college  he  went  to  live  on  his  estate,  which  was 
delightfully  situated  on  Lake  Windermere,  near  the  homes  of 
Wordsworth  and  Coleridge.  He  spent  four  years  there  in  boating, 
fishing,  and  hunting.  He  was  married  when  he  was  twenty-six, 
and  soon  afterwards  published  a  volume  of  poems.  He  continued 
10  to  live  an  idle,  out-of-door  life  until  the  loss  of  a  large  share  of  his 
fortune,  when  he  went  to  Edinburgh  and  began  to  study  law. 

He  decided,  however,  to  devote  himself  to  literature,  and 
wrote  many  articles  for  "  Blackwood's  Magazine,"  signing  him- 
self "Christopher  North." 
15  When  he  was  thirty-five  years  old,  Mr.  Wilson  was  elected 
professor  in  the  University  at  Edinburgh,  and  held  this  position 
for  thirty  years. 

One  family  lived  in  Glencreran,  and  another  in 
Glencoe — the  families  of  two  brothers.     Each  had  an 

20  only  child  —  a  son  and  a  daughter  —  born  on  the  same 
day.  Thus  had  these  cousins  grown  up  before  their 
parent's  eyes  —  Flora  Macdonald,  a  name  hallowed  of 
yore.,  the  fairest,  and  Ronald  Cameron,  the  boldest  of 
all  the  living  flowers  in  Glencoe  and  Glencreran. 

26  It  was  now  their  seventeenth  birthday,  and  Flora 
was  to  pass  the  day  in  Glencreran.  Ronald  was  to 
meet  her  in  the  mountains,  that  he  might  bring  her 


-»8    147  9«- 

down  the  precipitous  passes  to  his  father's  hut;  and 
soon  they  met  at  the  trysting  place,  a  bank  of  birch 
trees  beneath  a  cliff  that  takes  its  name  from  the 
eagles. 

On  their  meeting,  seemed  not  to  them  the  whole  of  5 
nature  suddenly  inspired  with  joy  and  beauty  ?  From 
tree  roots,  where  the  snow  was  thin,  little  flowers,  or 
herbs  flower-like,  now  for  the  first  time,  were  seen  look- 
ing out  as  if  alive ;  the  trees  seemed  budding,  as  if  it 
were  already  spring ;  and  rare  as  in  that  rocky  region  10 
are  the  birds  of  song,  a  faint  trill  for  a  moment  touched 
their  ears,  and  the  flutter  of  a  wing.  Deep  down  be- 
neath the  snow  they  listened  to  the  tinkle  of  rills 
unreached  by  the  frost,  and  merry,  thought  they,  was 
the  music  of  these  contented  prisoners.  15 

The  boy  starts  to  his  feet,  and  his  keen  eye  looks 
along  the  ready  rifle ;  for  his  sires  had  all  been  famous 
deer-stalkers,  and  the  passion  of  the  chase  was  in  his 
blood.  Lo!  a  deer  from  Dalness,  hound-driven,  or  sul- 
lenly astray,  slowly  bearing  his  antlers  up  the  glen,  20 
then  stopping  for  a  moment  to  snuff  the  air,  then 
away  —  away!  The  rifle-shot  rings  dully  from  the 
scarce  echoing  snow  cliffs,  and  the  animal  leaps  aloft, 
struck  by  a  certain  death  wound.  Laboring  and  lum- 
bering heavily  along,  the  huge  animal  at  last  disappears  25 
around  some  rocks  at  the  head  of  the  glen. 

"  Follow  me,  Flora ! "  the  boy-hunter  cries ;  and 
flinging  down  their  plaids  they  turn  their  bright  faces 
to   the   mountain,  and   away  up   the   glen   after  the 


-*j    148  &■• 

stricken  deer.  Redder  and  redder  grew  the  snow,  and 
more  heavily  trampled,  as  they  winded  around  the 
rocks. 

Yonder  is  the  deer,  staggering  up  the  mountain,  not 

5  half  a  mile  off  —  now  standing  at  bay,  as  if  before  his 
swimming  eyes  came  Fingal,  the  terror  of  the  forest, 
whose  howl  was  known  to  all  the  echoes,  and  quailed 
the  herd  while  their  antlers  were  yet  afar  off.  "  Rest, 
Flora,  rest !  while  I  fly  to  him  with  my  rifle  and  shoot 

10  him." 

The  boy,  maddened  by  the  chase,  pressed  forward, 
now  alone,  and  thus  he  was  hurried  on  for  miles,  till 
at  last  he  struck  the  noble  quarry,  and  down  sank  the 
antlers  in  the  snow,  while  the  air  was  spurned  by  the 

is  convulsive  beatings  of  feet.  Then  leaped  Ronald  upon 
the  red  deer  and  lifted  a  look  of  triumph  to  the  moun- 
tain-tops. 

Where  is  Flora  ?  Ronald  has  forgotten  her,  and  he 
is  alone  —  he  and  the  deer  —  an  enormous  animal,  fast 

20  stiffening  in  the  frost  of  death. 

Some  large  flakes  of  snow  are  in  the  air,  and  they 
seem  to  waver  and  whirl,  though  an  hour  ago  there 
was  not  a  breath.  Faster  they  fall  and  faster;  the 
flakes  are  as  large  as  leaves ;  and  overhead  whence  so 

25  suddenly  has  come  that  huge,  yellow  cloud?  "Flora, 
where  are  you  ?  where  are  you,  Flora  ?  "  and  from  the 
huge  animal  the  boy  leaps  up  and  sees  that  no  Flora 
is  at  hand. 

But  yonder  is  a  moving  speck,  far  off  upon  the  snow. 


•4  149  8^- 

'T  is  she  !  't  is  she !  Shrill  as  the  eagle's  cry  he  sends 
a  shout  down  the  glen,  and  Flora  is  at  last  by  his  side. 
Panting  and  speechless  she  stands,  and  then  dizzily 
sinks  upon  his  breast.  Her  hair  is  ruffled  by  the 
wind,  and  her  face  moistened  by  the  snowflakes,  now  s 
not  falling  but  driven.  Her  shivering  frame  misses 
the  warmth  of  the  plaid  which  almost  no  cold  can 
penetrate. 

What  would  the  miserable  boy  give  now  for  the 
coverings  lying  far  away,  which  in  his  foolish  passion  io 
he  had  flung  down  to  chase  that  fatal  deer?  "  Oh, 
Flora,  if  you  would  not  fear  to  stay  here  by  yourself, 
under  the  protection  of  God,  soon  would  I  go  and  come 
from  the  place  where  our  plaids  are  lying ;  and  under 
the  shelter  of  the  deer  we  may  be  able  to  outlive  the  is 
hurricane." 

"  I  will  go  with  you  down  the  glen,  Ronald "  ;  but, 
weak  as  a  day-old  lamb,  she  tottered  and  fell  down  in 
the  snow.     The  cold  had  chilled  her  very  heart,  after 
the  heat  of  that  long  race ;  and  it  was  manifest  that  20 
here  she  must  be  for  the  night,  to  live  or  to  die. 

"  I  will  go  and  leave  you  with  God,"  said  Ronald ; 
and  he  went  and  came  as  if  he  had  been  endowed  with 
eagles'  wings. 

All  at  once  Ronald  lifted  Flora  in  his  arms,  and  25 
walked  up  the  glen.     Some  walls  of  what  had  once 
been  a  house,  he  had  suddenly  remembered,  were  but 
a  short  way  off.     There  it  was  —  a  snowdrift  at  the 
opening  that  had  been  once  a  door ;  the  wood  of  the 


-«   150  &- 

roof  had  been  carried  off  for  fuel,  and  the  snowflakes 
were  falling  in,  as  if  they  would  soon  fill  the  inside 
of  the  ruin.  The  snow  in  front  was  all  trampled,  as 
if  by  sheep ;  and  carrying  in  his  burden,  Ronald  saw 
5  the  place  was  filled  with  a  flock  that,  all  huddled 
together,  looked  on  him  as  on  a  shepherd  come  to  see 
how  they  were  faring  in  the  storm. 

And  a  young  shepherd  he  was,  with  a  lamb  appar- 
ently dying  in  his  arms.     All  color,  all  motion,  all 

10  breath  seemed  to  be  gone ;  and  yet  something  convinced 
his  heart  that  she  was  yet  alive.  The  ruined  hut  was 
roofless,  but  across  an  angle  of  the  walls  some  pine 
branches  had  been  flung,  as  a  sort  of  shelter  for  the 
sheep  or  cattle  that  might  repair   thither   in    stormy 

15  weather. 

Into  that  corner  the  snowdrift  had  not  yet  forced 
its  way,  and  he  sat  down  there  with  Flora.  The  chill 
air  was  somewhat  softened  by  the  breath  of  the  hud- 
dled flock,  and  the  edge  of  the  cutting  wind  blunted 

20  by  the  stones. 

Bright  was  the  peat  fire  in  the  hut  of  Flora's  parents 
in  Glencoe,  and  they  were  among  the  happiest  of  the 
humble  happy,  blessing  this  the  birthday  of  their 
blameless   child.      They  thought  of   her   singing   her 

25  sweet  songs  by  the  fireside  of  the  hut  in  Glencreran, 
and  tender  thoughts  of  her  cousin  Ronald  were  with 
them  in  their  prayers. 

So  was  it  now  with  the  dwellers  in  the  hut  at  the 
head  of  Glencreran.  *  Their  Ronald  had  left  them  in 


-*6  151  8«- 

the  morning ;  night  had  come,  and  he  and  Flora  were 
not  there;  but  they  never  doubted  that  the  happy 
creatures  had  changed  their  minds,  and  that  Ronald 
had  returned  with  Flora  to  Glencoe. 

But  the  inland  storm  had  been  seen  brewing  among  5 
the  mountains,  and  down  through  the  long  cliff-pass 
went  a  band  of  shepherds,  trampling  their  way  across 
a  hundred  frozen  streams.  Away  over  the  drift-bridged 
chasms  toiled  that  gathering,  with  their  sheep-dogs 
scouring  the  loose  snows  in  the  van,  Fingal,  the  Red  10 
Beaver,  with  his  head  aloft  on  the  lookout  for  deer. 
Following  the  dogs,  who  know  their  duties,  the  band 
are  now  close  to  the  ruined  hut. 

Why  bark  the  sheep-dogs  so  ?  and  why  howls  Fin- 
gal, as  if  some  spirit  passed  athwart  the  night  ?  He  15 
scents  the  body  of  the  boy  who  so  often  had  shouted 
him  on  in  the  forest  when  the  antlers  went  by.  Not 
dead  —  nor  dead  she  who  is  on  his  bosom.  Yet  will 
the  red  blood  in  their  veins  ever  again  be  thawed  ? 

Almost  pitch  dark  is  the  roofless  ruin;  and  the  20 
frightened  sheep  know  not  what  is  that  terrible  shape 
that  is  howling  there.  But  a  man  enters  and  lifts  up 
one  of  the  bodies,  giving  it  into  the  arms  of  those  at 
the  doorway,  and  then  lifts  the  other ;  and  by  the  flash 
of  a  rifle  they  see  it  is  Ronald  Cameron  and  Flora  25 
Macdonald,  seemingly  both  frozen  to  death.  But  the 
noble  dog  knows  that  death  is  not  there,  and  licks  the 
face  of  Ronald,  as  if  he  would  restore  life  to  his  eyes. 

The  storm  was  with  them  all  the  way  down  the 


-»8  152  8«- 

glen ;  nor  could  they  have  heard  each  other's  voices ; 
but  mutely  they  shifted  the  burden  from  strong  hand 
to  hand,  thinking  of  the  hut  at  Glencoe,  and  of  what 
would  be  felt  there  on  their  arrival. 

5  Instinct,  reason,  and  faith  conducted  the  saving 
band  along ;  and  now  they  are  at  Glencoe,  and  at  the 
door  of  the  hut. 

To  life  were  brought  the  dead ;  and  there,  at  mid- 
night, sat  they  up  like  ghosts.     Then,  as  if  in  holy 

10  fear,  they  gazed  in  each  other's  faces,  thinking  that 
they  had  awakened  in  heaven.  "  Flora !  "  said  Ronald  ; 
and  that  word,  the  first  he  had  been  able  to  speak, 
reminded  him  of  all  that  had  passed,  and  he  knew  that 
the  God  in  whom  they  had  put  their  trust  had  sent 

is  them  deliverance. 


LEARNING    BY    HEART. 
VERNON  LUSHINGTON. 

Till  he  has  fairly  tried  it,  I  suspect  a  reader  does 
not  know  how  much  he  would  gain  from  committing  to 
memory  passages  of  real  excellence ;  precisely  because 
he  does  not  know  how  much  he  overlooks  in  merely 
reading.  Learn  one  true  poem  by  heart,  and  see  if 
you  do  not  find  it  so.  Beauty  after  beauty  will  reveal 
itself,  in  chosen  phrase,  or  happy  music,  or  noble  sug- 
gestion otherwise  undreamed  of.  It  is  like  looking  at 
one  of  nature's  wonders  through  a  microscope. 


h8  153  9* 

• 

Again,  how  much  in  such  a  poem  that  you  really  did 
feel  admirable  and  lovely  on  a  first  reading  passes  away 
if  you  do  not  give  it  a  further  and  much  better  reading ! 
—  passes  away  utterly,  like  a  sweet  sound,  or  an  image 
on  the  lake,  which  the  first  breath  of  wind  dispels.  If  5 
you  could  only  fix  that  image,  as  the  photographers  do 
theirs,  so  beautifully,  so  perfectly !  And  you  can  do 
so  !     Learn  it  by  heart,  and  it  is  yours  forever  ! 

Poems  and  noble  extracts,  whether  of  verse  or  prose, 
once  so  reduced  into  possession  and  rendered  truly  our  10 
own,  may  be  to  us  a  daily  pleasure  —  better  far  than 
a  whole  library  unused.  They  may  come  to  us  in  our 
dull  moments,  to  refresh  us  as  with  spring  flowers ;  in 
our  selfish  musings,  to  win  us  by  pure  delight  from 
the  tyranny  of  foolish  castle-building,  self-congratula-  15 
tions,  and  mean  anxieties.  They  may  be  with  us  in 
the  workshop,  in  the  crowded  streets,  by  the  fireside ; 
sometimes,  perhaps,  on  pleasant  hillsides,  or  by  sound- 
ing shores  —  noble  friends  and  companions,  our  own! 
never  intrusive,  ever  at  hand,  coming  at  our  call !  20 

Shakespeare,  Milton,  Wordsworth,  Tennyson  —  the 
words  of  such  men  do  not  stale  upon  us ;  they  do  not 
grow  old  or  cold.  Further,  though  you  are  young 
now,  some  day  you  will  be  old.  Some  day  you  may 
reach  that  time  when  a  man  lives  in  greater  part  for  25 
memory  and  by  memory.  I  can  imagine  a  chance 
renewal,  chance  visitation  of  the  words  long  remem- 
bered, long  garnered  in  the  heart,  and  I  think  I  see  a 
gleam  of  rare  joy  in  the  eyes  of  the  old  man. 


-«    154  8«~ 

For  those,  in  particular,  whose  leisure  time  is  short, 
and  precious  as  scant  rations  to  beleaguered  men,  I 
believe  there  could  not  be  a  better  expenditure  of  time 
than  deliberately  giving  an  occasional  hour  —  it  re- 
5  quires  no  more  —  to  committing  to  memory  chosen  pas- 
sages from  great  authors.  If  the  mind  were  thus  daily 
nourished  with  a  few  choice  words  of  the  best  English 
poets  and  writers  ;  if  the  habit  of  learning  by  heart 
were  to  become  so  general  that,  as  a  matter  of  course, 

10  any  person  presuming  to  be  educated  amongst  us  might 
be  expected  to  be  equipped  with  a  few  good  pieces,  — 
I  believe  it  would  lead,  far  more  than  the  mere  sound 
of  it  suggests,  to  the  diffusion  of  the  best  kind  of  litera- 
ture and  the  right  appreciation  of  it,  and  men  would 

15  not  long  rest  satisfied  with  having  a  few  stock  pieces. 

The  only  objection  I  can  conceive  to  what  I  have 

been  saying  is,  that  it  may  be  said  that  a  relish  for 

higher  literature  belongs  only  to  the  few ;  that  it  is  the 

result  of  cultivation  ;  and  that  there  is  no  use  in  try- 

20  ing  to  create  what  must  be  in  general  only  a  fictitious 
interest.  But  I  do  not  admit  that  literature,  even  the 
higher  literature,  must  belong  to  the  few.  Poetry  is, 
in  the  main,  addressed  to  all  men  ;  and  though  some 
poetry    requires    particular    knowledge    and    superior 

25  culture,  much,  and  that  the  noblest,  needs  only  natural 
feeling  and  the  light  of  common  experience. 

To  abandon  all  recitation  is  to  give  up  a  custom  which 
has  given  delight  and  instruction  to  all  the  races  of  artic- 
ulately speaking  men.    If  our  faces  are  set  against  vain 


-*6  155  8«- 

display,  and  set  towards  rational  enjoyment  of  one  an- 
other, each  freely  giving  his  best,  and  freely  receiving 
what  his  neighbor  offers,  we  need  not  fear  that  Our  so- 
cial evenings  will  be  marred  by  an  occasional  recitation, 
or  that  the  fine  passages  will  wither.  And,  moreover,  s 
it  is  not  for  reciting' s  sake  that  I  chiefly  recommend 
this  most  faithful  form  of  reading  —  learning  by  heart. 

I  come  back,  therefore,  to  this,  that  learning  by  heart 
is  a  good  thing,  and  is  neglected  amongst  us.  Why  is  it 
neglected  ?  Partly  because  of  our  indolence,  but  partly,  10 
I  take  it,  because  we  do  not  sufficiently  consider  that  it 
is  a  good  thing,  and  needs  to  be  taken  in  hand.  We  need 
to  be  reminded  of  it ;  I  here  remind  you.  Like  a  town- 
crier,  ringing  my  bell,  I  would  say  to  you,  "O-yes, 
o-yes !  Lost,  stolen,  or  strayed,  a  good  ancient  prac-  15 
tice  —  the  good  ancient  practice  of  learning  by  heart. 
Every  finder  should  be  handsomely  rewarded."  .  .  . 

If  any  ask,  "  What  shall  I  learn  ? "  the  answer  is, 
"  Do  as  you  do  with  tunes  ;  begin  with  what  you  sin- 
cerely like  best,  what  you  would  most  wish  to  remem-  20 
ber,  what  you  would  most  enjoy  saying  to  yourself  or 
repeating  to  another."  You  will  soon  find  the  list  in- 
exhaustible. Every  one  has  spare  ten  minutes ;  one  of 
the  problems  of  life  is  how  to  employ  them  usefully. 
You  may  well  spend  some  in  looking  after  and  securing  25 
this  good  property  you  have  won. 


->8  156  9<- 


A    COURT    LADY. 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT   BROWNING. 


Elizabeth  Barrett  was  born  in  England  on  the  6th  of 
March,  1806.  Her  father  was  a  wealthy  Englishman,  and 
shortly  after  the  birth  of  this  daughter  he  built  a  country 
house   in    Herefordshire  —  "a  luxurious    home    standing   in   a 

park,    among   trees,    and    sloping 
hills  all  sprinkled  with  sheep." 

Elizabeth,  a  slender  little  maiden 
with  dark  eyes,  soft  curls,  and  a 
smile  like  a  sunbeam,  occupied  a 
room  in  the  upper  part  of  the 
house,  where  she  could  look  out 
upon  the  tree-tops  and  listen  to 
the  soft  notes  of  the  birds. 

Each   of   the   children  of  the 

family  had  a  garden  of  his  own, 

and    Elizabeth    was    so    fond   of 

white  roses  that  she  had  a  bower 

overgrown  with  them. 

Her  tutor  found  in  her  a  remarkable  pupil,  and  at  eight  years 

20  of  age  the  little  girl  was  reading  Greek,  often  holding  her  book 

in  one  hand  while  she  nursed  her  doll  on  her  arm. 

Her  father  was  very  proud  of  his  little  daughter,  and  when 
she  was  between  eleven  and  twelve  he  had  one  of  her  poems, 
"  The  Battle  of  Marathon,"  published  for  his  own  library. 
25  But  her  time  was  not  all  spent  in  study.  She  loved  to  play 
with  her  brothers  and  sisters,  and  ride  her  black  pony,  Moses, 
about  the  country.  One  day  in  trying  to  saddle  him  in  the 
field,  she  fell  and  injured  her  back,  so  that  for  years  she  was  a 
helpless  invalid.  This  trial  did  not  prevent  her  from  living  as 
30  she  had  dreamed  and  hoped  to  live,  and  she  continued  to  read 
and  write  in  her  seclusion. 

Her  mother  died  when  Elizabeth  was  twenty,  and  her  father 


-i8  157  9*- 

was  unfortunate  in  business,  so  that  he  was  obliged  to  sell  his 
beautiful  home,  and  the  family  went  to  London. 

Elizabeth  was  seldom  able  to  leave  her  room,  but  continued 
to  write.     Her  name  soon  became  known  to  the  world.     One  of 
her  first  works  to  attract  attention  was  "Prometheus,"  which     5 
was  published  when  she  was  twenty -six  years  old. 

Many  a  sweet  and  tender  poem  came  from  her  pen,  and  she 
always  wrote  on  the  side  of  truth  and  freedom. 

She  became  acquainted  with    Kobert   Browning,  another   of 
England's  great  poets,  and  they  were  married  in  1846.     Mr.   10 
Browning  took  his  wife  to  Florence,  Italy,  and  the  sunny  skies 
of  that  country  partially  restored  her  health. 

"  Casa  Guidi  Windows,"  one  of  Mrs.  Browning's  strongest 
poems,  was  written  during  her  life  in  Florence,  as  she  looked  from 
her  windows  upon  the  Italian  people  struggling  for  freedom.  15 

"Aurora  Leigh"  is  Mrs.  Browning's  most  famous  work. 
Every  page  is  filled  with  beauty.  This  most  gifted  of  women- 
poets  died  at  Florence  in  1861. 

Her  hair  was  tawny  with  gold,  her  eyes  with  purple 

were  dark, 
Her  cheeks'  pale  opal  burnt  with  a  red  and  restless  spark. 

Never  was  lady  of  Milan  nobler  in  name  and  in  race ; 
Never  was  lady  of  Italy  fairer  to  see  in  the  face. 

Never  was  lady  on  earth  more  true  as  woman  and  wife, 
Larger  in  judgment  and  instinct,  prouder  in  manners 
and  life. 

She  stood  in  the  early  morning,  and  said  to  her  maidens, 

"  Bring 
That  silken  robe  made  ready  to  wear  at  the  court  of 

the  King. 


-*8  158  £<- 

"Bring  me  the  clasps  of  diamond,  lucid,  clear  of  the 

mote, 
Clasp  me  the  large  at  the  waist,  and  clasp  me  the  small 

at  the  throat.'' 

Gorgeous  she  entered  the  sunlight  which  gathered  her 

up  in  a  flame, 
While,  straight  in  her  open  carriage,  she  to  the  hospital 

came. 

In  she  went  at  the   door,  and   gazing  from   end   to 

end, 
"  Many  and  low  are  the  pallets,  but  each  is  the  place 

of  a  friend." 

Up  she  passed  through  the  wards,  and  stood  at  a  young 

man's  bed : 
Bloody  the  band  on  his  brow,  and  livid  the  droop  of 

his  head. 

"  Art  thou  a  Lombard,  my  brother  ?     Happy  art  thou," 

she  cried, 
And  smiled  like  Italy  on  him :  he  dreamed  in  her  face 

and  died. 

Down  she  stepped  to  a  pallet  where  lay  a  face  like  a 

girl's, 
Young,  and  pathetic  with  dying,  —  a  deep  black  hole 

in  the  curls. 


-i8  159  8«- 

"Art  thou  from   Tuscany,  brother?   and  seest  thou, 

dreaming  in  pain, 
Thy  mother  stand  in  the  piazza,  searching  the  list  of 

the  slain?" 

Kind  as  a  mother  herself,  she  touched  his  cheeks  with 

her  hands : 
"  Blessed  is  she  who  has  borne  thee,  although  she  should 

weep  as  she  stands." 

On  she  passed  to  a  Frenchman,  his  arm  carried  off  by 

a  ball : 
Kneeling,  "  0  more  than  my  brother !  how  shall  I  thank 

thee  for  all  ? 

"  Each  of  the  heroes  around  us  has  fought  for  his  land 

and  line, 
But  thou  hast  fought  for  a  stranger,  in  hate  of  a  wrong 

not  thine. 

"Happy   are   all   free  peoples,  too  strong  to  be   dis- 

possest ; 
But  blessed  are  those  among  nations  who  dare  to  be 

strong  for  the  rest." 

Ever  she  passed  on  her  way,  and  came  to  a  couch 

where  pined 
One  with  a  face  from  Yenitia,  white  with  a  hope  out 

of  mind. 


-4Q  160  Qt- 

Long  she  stood  and  gazed,  and  twice  she  tried  at  the 

name, 
But  two  great  crystal  tears  were  all  that  faltered  and 

came. 

Only  a  tear  for  Venice  ?     She  turned  as  in  passion  and 

loss, 
And  stooped  to  his  forehead  and  kissed  it,  as  if  she 

were  kissing  the  cross. 

Faint  with  that  strain  of  heart  she  moved  on  then  to 

another, 
Stern  and  strong  in  his  death.     "  And  dost  thou  suffer, 

my  brother  ?" 

Holding  his  hands  in  hers :    "  Out  of  the  Piedmont 

lion 
Cometh  the  sweetness  of  freedom !  sweetest  to  live  or 

to  die  on." 

Holding  his  cold  rough  hands,  "  Well,  oh,  well  have  ye 

done 
In  noble,  noble  Piedmont,  who  would  not  be  noble 

alone?" 

Back  he  fell  while  she  spoke.     She  rose  to  her  feet 

with  a  spring, 
"  That  was  a  Piedmontese !  and  this  is  the  Court  of  the 

King." 


-»8  161    8«- 

THE    STAG    OF    CLANRUADH. 

GEORGE    MacDONALD. 
For  a  sketch  of  the  life  of  George  MacDonald  see  "  Cyr's  Fourth  Reader." 

Among  the  peasantry  assembled  at  the  feast  were 
two  that  had  neither  danced  nor  seated  themselves  at 
the  long  table  where  all  were  welcome.  The  elder  was 
a  man  about  five  and  fifty,  tall  and  lean,  with  a  wiry 
frame,  dark  grizzled  hair,  and  a  shaven  face.  His  eyes  5 
were  remarkably  clear  and  keen,  and  the  way  he  used 
them  could  hardly  fail  to  attract  attention.  Although 
everybody  spoke  to  him,  he  never  spoke  in  reply  —  only 
made  signs,  sometimes  with  his  lips,  oftener  with  hand 
or  head ;  the  man  was  deaf  and  dumb.  10 

His  companion  was  a  youth  whose  age  it  would  have 
been  difficult  to  guess.  He  looked  a  lad,  and  was  not 
far  from  thirty.  The  relation  between  the  two  was 
strangely  interesting.  Day  and  night  they  were  insep- 
arable. Because  the  father  was  deaf,  the  son  gave  all  15 
his  attention  to  the  sounds  of  the  world ;  his  soul  sat  in 
his  ears,  ever  awake,  ever  listening. 

What  his  people  thought  of  him  came  out  in  the 
name  they  gave  him:  "Rob  of  the  Angels."  Some 
said  he  always  looked  cold ;  but  I  think  that  came  of  20 
the  wonderful  peace  on  his  face,  like  the  quiet  of  a 
lake  over  which  lies  a  thin  mist.  Never  was  stronger 
nor  fuller  devotion  manifested  by  son  to  father  than  by 
Rob  of  the  Angels  to  Hector  of  the  Stags. 


-»8  162  8<*- 

The  father  trusted  his  son's  hearing  as  implicitly  as 

his  own  sight.     When  he  saw  a  certain  look  come  on 

his  face  he  would  drop  on  the  instant  and  crouch  as 

still  as  if  he  had  ears,  watching  Rob's  face  for  news  of 

5  some  sound  wandering  through  the  vast  of  night. 

He  had  the  keenest  eyes  in  Clanruadh  and  was  a 
dead  shot.  Even  the  Chief  was  not  his  equal.  Yet  he 
never  stalked  a  deer,  never  killed  anything  for  mere 
sport.  What  the  two  wanted  for  food  they  would  kill ; 
10  but  it  was  not  much  they  needed,  for  seldom  can  two 
men  have  lived  on  less. 

Two  young  men  of  wealth,  named  Sercombe  and 
Palmer,  had  come  to  the  country  to  hunt.  They  had 
neither  experience  nor  trustworthy  attendants;    none 

15  of  the  Chief's  men  would  hunt  with  them.  Neither 
had  shot  a  single  stag  and  the  time  was  drawing  near 
when  they  should  return.  To  have  no  proof  of  prowess 
to  display  was  humbling  to  Sercombe ;  he  must  show 
a  stag's  head  or  hide  his  own !     He  resolved,  by  him- 

20  self,  one  of  the  next  moonlit  nights,  to  stalk  a  certain 
great,  wide-horn  stag  of  whose  habits  he  had  received 
information. 

His  sole  attendant  when  shooting  was  a  clever  vaga- 
bond lad,  called  Christian.     From  him  he  heard  of  the 

25  great  stag  and  the  spots  in  the  valley  which  he  fre- 
quented, often  scraping  away  the  snow  with  his  feet  to 
get  the  grass.  The  lad  did  not  inform  him  that  the 
animal  was  a  special  favorite  with  the  Chief  of  Clan- 


-*8  163  8*- 

ruadh,  or  that  the  clan  looked  upon  him  as  their  live 
symbol,  tha  very  stag  represented  upon  their  coat  of 
arms. 

Christian  and  Sercombe  had  stalked  him  day  after 
day,  but  without  success.  And  now,  with  one  poor  5 
remaining  hope,  the  latter  had  determined  to  stalk  him 
by  night.  To  despoil  him  of  his  life,  his  glorious  rush 
over  the  mountain-side,  to  see  that  ideal  of  strength, 
suppleness,  and  joyous  flight  lie  nerveless  and  placid 
at  his  feet,  was  for  the  time  the  ambition  of  Halary  10 
Sercombe. 

There  was,  however,  a  reason  for  the  failure  of  the 
young  hunters  beyond  lack  of  skill  and  what  they  called 
their  ill  luck.  Hector  of  the  Stags  was  awake ;  his  keen 
eye  was  upon  them,  seconded  by  the  all-hearing  ears  of  15 
Rob  of  the  Angels.  They  had  discovered  that  the  two 
men  had  set  their  hearts  on  the  big  stag,  and  every  time 
they  were  out  after  him  Hector,  too,  was  out  with  his 
spyglass,  the  gift  of  an  old  seafaring  friend,  searching 
the  billowy  hills.  20 

While  the  hunters  would  be  toiling  along  to  get  wind 
of  him  unseen,  for  the  old  stag's  eyes  were  as  keen  as 
his  velvety  nose,  the  father  and  son  would  be  lying, 
perhaps  close  at  hand,  perhaps  far  away,  on  some  hill- 
side of  another  valley,  watching  now  the  hunters,  now  25 
the  stag. 

For  love  of  the  Chief  and  for  love  of  the  stag  they 
had  constituted  themselves  his  guardians.  Again  and 
again,  when  one  of  the  hunters  had  him  within  range, 


-*6  164  8«- 

quietly  feeding,  naught  between  the  great  pumping  of 
his  big  joyous  heart  and  the  hot  bullet  bui  the  brown 
skin,  a  distant  shot  would  forestall  the  nigh  one,  a  shot 
for  life,  not  death ;  and  the  stag,  knowing  instantly,  by 

5  wondrous  combination  of  sense  and  judgment,  in  what 
quarter  lay  the  danger,  would,  without  once  looking 
around  him,  measure  a  hundred  yards  of  hillock  and 
rock  between  the  sight-taking  and  the  pulling  of  the 
trigger. 

10  Another  time  it  would  be  no  shot,  but  the  bark  of  a 
dog,  the  cry  of  a  moor  fowl,  or  a  signal  from  some 
watching  hind  that  started  him. 

The  sounds  that  warned  the  stag  were  by  no  means 
always  uttered  by  other  animals.     They  were  often  but 

15  imitations  by  Rob  of  the  Angels.  Not  a  moment  did 
the  stag  neglect  any  warning,  but  from  peaceful  feeder 
was  changed  to  wind-like  fleer,  his  great  horns  thrown 
back  upon  his  shoulders,  and  his  four  legs  just  touching 
the  ground  with  elastic  hoof. 

20  One  night  Hector  of  the  Stags  could  not  sleep. 
It  was  not  for  cold,  for  the  night  was  for  the  season 
a  mild  one.  Raising  himself  on  his  elbow,  Hector 
learned  that  Rob  was  not  by  his  side.  He,  too,  had 
been  unable  to  sleep,  and  at  last  discovered  that  he  was 

25  uneasy  about  something ;  what,  he  could  not  tell.  He 
rose  and  went  out.  The  moon  was  shining,  and,  as 
there  was  much  snow,  the  night  was  brighter  than 
many  a  day.  Hector  soon  joined  his  son.  He  had 
brought  his  telescope  and  immediately  began  to  sweep 


-4  165  &- 

the  moonlight  on  the  opposite  hill.  In  a  moment  he 
touched  Rob  on  the  shoulder  and  handed  him  the  tele- 
scope. Rob  looked  and  saw  a  dark  speck  on  the  snow 
moving  along  the  hillside.  It  was  the  big  stag.  Now 
and  then  he  would  stop  to  snuff  and  search  for  a  mouth-  5 
ful,  but  was  evidently  making  for  one  of  his  feeding 
places — most  likely  that  on  the  Chief's  land.  They 
did  not  stop  for  more  than  a  glance,  however,  but  made 
for  the  valley  as  fast  as  they  could  walk ;  the  noise  of 
running  feet  would  be  heard  too  far  on  such  a  clear  10 
night.  The  whole  way,  without  sound  uttered,  father 
and  son  kept  interchanging  ideas  on  the  matter. 

From  thorough  acquaintance  with  the  habits  of  the 
animal,  they  were  quite  certain  he  was  on  his  way  to 
his  favorite  haunt.  If  he  reached  there,  he  would  be  15 
safe ;  it  was  the  Chief's  ground  and  no  one  would  dare 
to  touch  him.  But  he  was  not  yet  upon  it  and  was  in 
danger.  If  they  found  him  at  his  usual  feed,  and  dan- 
ger threatening,  they  must  scare  him  eastward ;  if  no 
peril  was  at  hand,  they  would  watch  him  awhile,  that  20 
he  might  feed  in  safety. 

They  approached  the  castle ;  immediately  beyond  that 
they  would  be  in  sight  of  the  feeding  ground.  But  they 
were  still  behind  it  when  Rob  of  the  Angels  bounded 
forward  in  terror  at  the  sound  of  a  gun.  His  father,  25 
however,  who  was  in  front,  was  off  before  him.  Neither 
hearing  anything,  nor  seeing  Rob,  he  knew  that  a  shot 
had  been  fired,  and,  caution  being  now  useless,  was  in 
a  moment  at  full  speed. 


^8  166  8<- 

The  smoke  of  the  shot  hung  white  in  the  moonlight 
over  the  end  of  the  ridge.  No  red  bulk  shadowed  the 
green  pasture,  no  thicket  of  horns  went  shaking  over 
the  sod.     No  lord  of  creation,  but  an  enemy  of  life, 

5  stood  regarding  his  work,  a  tumbled  heap  of  death,  yet 
saying  to  himself,  "  It  is  good." 

Rage  filled  the  heart  of  Hector  of  the  Stags.  He 
gave  a  roar  like  a  wild  beast  and  raised  his  gun.  But 
Rob  of  the  Angels  caught  it  ere  it  reached  his  shoulder. 

10  He  yielded,  and  with  another  roar  like  a  lion  bounded 
bare-handed  upon  the  enemy. 

It  was  not  merely  that  the  enemy  had  killed  the 
great  stag  of  their  love;  he  had  killed  him  on  the 
Chief's  own  ground,  under  the  eyes  of  the  man  whose 

15  business  it  was  to  watch  over  him.  It  was  an  insult 
as  well  as  a  wrong  to  his  Chief.  In  the  fierce  majesty 
of  his  wrath  he  threw  himself  upon  the  poacher.  Ser- 
combe  met  him  with  a  blow  straight  from  the  shoulder, 
and  he  dropped. 

20  Rob  of  the  Angels,  close  behind  him,  dropped  his  gun, 
his  knife  flashed  pale  in  the  moonlight,  and  he  darted 
upon  the  enemy.  It  would  have  gone  ill  with  the  bigger 
man,  for  Rob  was  as  lithe  as  a  snake  —  not  only  swift 
to  parry  and  dodge,  but  to  strike.     Sercombe's  arm 

25  would  have  had  at  least  one  terrible  gash,  had  not  at 
that  moment,  from  the  top  of  the  ridge,  come  the  stern 
voice  of  the  Chief.  Rob's  knife  "  made  lightnings  in 
the  splendor  of  the  moon,"  as  he  threw  it  from  him 
and  sank  down  by  his  father.     Then  Hector  came  to 


-48  167  8*- 

himself  and  rose,  trembling  with  excitement,  for  he  saw 
the  stalwart  form  of  his  Chief  on  the  ridge  above  him. 

The  Chief  had  been  wakened  by  the  gun,  and,  at  the 
roar  of  his  friend  Hector,  sprang  from  his  bed.  But 
when  he  saw  his  beloved  stag  dead  on  his  pasture,  he  s 
came  down  the  ridge  like  an  avalanche.  He  gazed 
speechless  for  a  moment  on  the  slaughtered  stag  and 
heaved  a  great  sigh.  "  Mr.  Sercombe,"  he  said,  "  I 
would  rather  you  had  shot  my  best  horse.  Are  you 
aware,  sir,  that  you  are  a  poacher?"  10 

"  I  had  supposed  the  term  inapplicable  to  a  gentle- 
man/' answered  Sercombe  with  entire  coolness.  "  I  will 
pay  whatever  you  choose  to  set  on  the  brute."  It  would 
be  hard  to  say  which  was  less  agreeable  to  the  Chief,  to 
have  his  stag  called  a  brute,  or  be  offered  blood  money.  15 

"  Stag  Ruadh  priced  like  a  bullock,"  he  said  with  a 
slow  smile,  full  of  sadness ;  "  the  pride  of  every  child  in 
the  glen  !  Not  a  gentleman  in  the  county  would  have 
shot  Clanruadh's  deer." 

Sercombe  was  by  this  time  feeling  uncomfortable,  20 
and   it   made   him   angry.      He    muttered   something 
about  superstition. 

"He  was  taken  when  a  calf,"  the  Chief  went  on, 
"  and  given  to  a  great-aunt  of  mine  ;  but  when  he  grew 
up  he  took  to  the  hills  again,  and  was  known  by  his  25 
silver  collar  till  he  managed  to  rid  himself  of  it.  He 
shall  be  buried  where  he  lies,  and  his  monument  shall 
tell  how  the  stranger  served  the  stag  of  Clanruadh." 

From  "  What's  Mine's  Mine.'''' 


h8  168  8* 


PINE    TREES. 


JOHN    RUSKIN. 


20 


John  Ruskin  was  born  in  London  in  1819.  He  was  a  bright, 
active  boy  and  learned  to  read  when  he  was  four  years  old.  He 
amused  himself  by  making  little  books,  printing  them  by  hand, 
and  illustrating  them  with  his  own  drawings. 

His  parents  spent  several  sum- 
mers in  driving  about  England  en- 
joying the  sights  and  historical 
places.  John  went  with  them,  and 
as  soon  as  he  could  write  he  kept  a 
journal. 

Several  years  later  he  traveled 
with  his  father  through  Germany, 
sailed  across  the  Italian  lakes,  and 
saw  the  Alps. 

Ruskin  was  educated  at  Oxford. 
When   he  was   graduated   he   had 
already  become  well   known  as  a 
writer,    gained    the    most    popular 
university  prize,  and  was  considered  a  clever  artist. 

He  became  deeply  interested  in  the  artists  of  his  time,  and 
published  a  number  of  volumes  entitled  "  Modern  Painters."  He 
has  also  written  many  other  works,  each  containing  common 
sense  and  truth,  as  well  as  beauty  and  imagination. 

Mr.  Ruskin  is  still  living  in  his  delightful  home  at  Brantwood. 


25 


The  pine  is  trained  to  need  nothing  and  to  endure 
everything.  Tall  or  short,  it  will  be  straight.  Small 
or  large,  it  will  be  round.  It  may  be  permitted  to  the 
soft,  lowland  trees  that  they  should  make  themselves 
gay  with  the  show  of  blossom  and  glad  with  pretty 


Hg   169  9»- 

charities  of  fruitfulness.  We  builders  with  the  sword 
have  harder  work  to  do  for  man,  and  must  do  it  in 
close-set  troops. 

To  stay  the  sliding  of  the  mountain  snows,  which 
would  bury  him;  to  hold  in  divided  drops,  at  our  5 
sword  points,  the  rain,  which  would  sweep  away  him 
and  his  treasure  fields;  to  nurse  in  shade  among  our 
brown,  fallen  leaves  the  tricklings  that  feed  the  brooks 
in  drought ;  to  give  massive  shield  against  the  winter 
wind,  which  shrieks  through  the  bare  branches  of  the  10 
plain,  —  such  service  must  we  do  him  steadfastly  while 
we  live. 

Our  bodies  also  are  at  his  service ;  softer  than  the 
bodies  of  other  trees,  though  our  service  is  harder  than 
theirs.  Let  him  take  them  as  he  pleases  for  his  houses  15 
and  ships.  So  also  it  may  be  well  for  these  timid,  low- 
land trees  to  tremble  with  all  their  leaves,  or  turn  their 
paleness  to  the  sky,  if  but  a  rush  of  rain  passes  by 
them ;  or  to  let  fall  their  leaves  at  last,  sick  and  sere. 
But  we  pines  must  live  amidst  the  wrath  of  clouds.      20 

We  only  wave  our  branches  to  and  fro  when  the 
storm  pleads  with  us,  as  men  toss  their  arms  in  a 
dream. 

And,  finally,  these  weak,  lowland  trees  may  struggle 
fondly  for  the  last  remnant  of  life,  and  send  up  feeble  25 
saplings  again  from  their  roots  when  they  are  cut 
down.  But  we  builders  with  the  sword  perish  boldly ; 
our  dying  shall  be  perfect  and  solemn,  as  our  warring; 
we  give  up  our  lives  without  reluctance,  and  forever. 


-*8  170  8«- 

I  wish  the  reader  to  fix  his  attention  for  a  moment 
on  these  two  great  characters  of  the  pine,  its  straight- 
ness  and  rounded  perfectness  ;  both  wonderful,  and  in 
their  issue  lovely.    I  say  first  its  straightness.    Because 

5  we  see  it  in  the  wildest  scenery,  we  are  apt  to  remem- 
ber only  as  examples  of  it  those  which  have  been  dis- 
turbed by  violent  accident  or  disease. 

Of  course  such  instances  are  frequent.  The  soil  of 
the  pine  is  subject  to  continual  change;  perhaps  the 

10  rock  in  which  it  is  rooted  splits  in  frost  and  falls  for- 
ward, throwing  the  young  stems  aslope,  or  the  whole 
mass  of  earth  around  it  is  undermined  by  rain,  or  a 
huge  boulder  falls  on  its  stem  from  above,  and  forces 
it  for  twenty  years  to  grow  with  weight  of  several  tons 

15  leaning  on  its  side. 

Nevertheless  this  is  not  the  truest  or  universal 
expression  of  the  pine's  character.  The  pine  rises  in 
serene  resistance,  self-contained;  nor  can  I  ever  with- 
out awe  stay  long  under  a  great  Alpine  cliff,  looking 

20  up  to  its  great  companies  of  pine. 

You  cannot  reach  them;   those  trees  never  heard 
human  voice ;  they  are  far  above  all  sound  but  that  of 
the  winds.     No  foot  ever  stirred  fallen  leaf  of  theirs. 
Then   note,   farther,   their   perfectness.      The   pine 

25  stands  compact,  like  one  of  its  own  cones,  slightly 
curved  on  its  sides,  and  instead  of  being  wild  in  its 
expression,  forms  the  softest  of  all  forest  scenery.  For 
other  trees  show  their  trunks  and  twisting  boughs; 
but  the  pine,  growing  either  in  luxuriant  mass  or  in 


-»6   171   &- 

happy  isolation,  allows  no  bough  to  be  seen.  Lowland 
forests  arch  overhead  and  chequer  the  ground  with 
darkness;  but  the  pine,  growing  in  scattered  groups, 
leaves  the  glades  between  emerald  bright.  Its  gloom 
is  all  its  own ;  narrowing  to  the  sky,  it  lets  the  sun-  5 
shine  strike  down  to  the  dew. 

And  then  I  want  you  to  notice  in  the  pine  its  exqui- 
site fineness.  Other  trees  rise  against  the  sky  in  dots 
and  knots,  but  this  in  fringes. 

You  never  see  the  edges  of  it,  so  subtle  are  they;  10 
and  for  this  reason  it  alone  of  trees,  so  far  as  I  know, 
is  capable  of  the  fiery  changes  noticed  by  Shakespeare. 

When  the  sun  rises  behind  a  ridge  crested  with  pine, 
provided  the  ridge  be  at  a  distance  of  about  two  miles, 
and  seen  clear,  all  the  trees  for  about  three  or  four  15 
degrees  on  each  side  of  the*  sun  become  trees  of  light, 
seen  in  clear  flame  against  the  darker  sky,  and  dazzling 
as  the  sun  itself. 

I  thought  at  first  this  was  owing  to  the  actual  luster 
of  the  leaves  j  but  I  believe  now  it  is  caused  by  the  20 
cloud-dew  upon  them,  every  minutest  leaf  carrying  its 
diamond.  It  seems  as  if  these  trees,  living  always 
among  the  clouds,  had  caught  part  of  their  glory  from 
them. 

From  "  Modern  Painters." 


h8  172   8«- 

ASPECT    OF    THE    PINES. 
PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE. 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne,  a  well-known  Southern  poet,  was 
born  in  Charleston,  S.  C,  in  1830. 

His  verses  are  filled  with  pictures  of  nature  in  the  South  and 
the  lessons  revealed  to  his  poetic  mind.     He  died  in  1886. 

Tall,  somber,  grim,  against  the  morning  sky 
They  rise,  scarce  touched  by  melancholy  airs, 
Which  stir  the  fadeless  foliage  dreamfully, 
As  if  from  realms  of  mystical  despairs. 

Tall,  somber,  grim,  they  stand  with  dusky  gleams 
Brightening  to  gold  within  the  woodland's  core, 
Beneath  the  gracious  noontide's  tranquil  beams  — 
But  the  weird  winds  of  morning  sigh  no  more. 

A  stillness  strange,  divine,  ineffable, 
Broods  round  and  o'er  them  in  the  wind's  surcease, 
And  in  each  tinted  copse  and  shimmering  dell 
Rests  the  mute  rapture  of  deep-hearted  peace. 

Last  sunset  comes  —  the  solemn  joy  —  and  night 
Born  from  the  nest  when  cloudless  day  declines  — 
Low,  flutelike  breezes  sweep  the  waves  of  light, 
And  lifting  dark  green  tresses  of,  the  pines, 

Till  every  lock  is  luminous,  gently  float, 
Fraught  with  pale  odors  up  the  heavens  afar, 
To  faint  when  twilight  on  her  virginal  throat 
Wears  for  a  gem  the  tremulous  vesper  star. 


-*6   173  3«- 

WORK. 

JOHN  RUSKIN. 

It  is  physically  impossible  for  a  well-educated,  intel- 
lectual, or  brave  man  to  make  money  the  chief  object 
of  his  thoughts;  as  physically  impossible  as  it  is  for 
him  to  make  his  dinner  the  principal  object  of  them. 
All  healthy  people  like  their  dinners,  but  their  dinner  5 
is  not  the  main  object  of  their  lives.  So  all  healthily 
minded  people  like  making  money  —  ought  to  like  it, 
and  to  enjoy  the  sensation  of  winning  it ;  but  the  main 
object  of  their  life  is  not  money;  it  is  something  better 
than  money.  10 

A  good  soldier,  for  instance,  mainly  wishes  to  do  his 
fighting  well.  He  is  glad  of  his  pay  —  very  properly 
so,  and  justly  grumbles  when  you  keep  him  ten  years 
without  it ;  still,  his  main  notion  of  life  is  to  win 
battles,  not  to  be  paid  for  winning  them.  15 

So  of  doctors.  They  like  fees  no  doubt  —  ought  to 
like  them ;  yet  if  they  are  brave  and  well  educated,  the 
entire  object  of  their  lives  is  not  fees.  They,  on  the 
whole,  desire  to  cure  the  sick ;  and  —  if  they  are  good 
doctors,  and  the  choice  were  fairly  put  to  them —  20 
would  rather  cure  their  patient  and  lose  their  fee  than 
kill  him  and  get  it.  And  so  with  all  other  brave  and 
rightly  trained  men;  their  work  is  first,  their  fee 
second ;  very  important  always,  but  still  second. 

But  in  every  nation,  as  I  said,  there  are  a  vast  class  25 


-*6  174  8<- 

who  are  cowardly,  and  more  or  less  stupid.  And  with 
these  people,  just  as  certainly  the  fee  is  first  and  the 
work  second,  as  with  brave  people  the  work  is  first  and 
the  fee  second. 

5  And  this  is  no  small  distinction.  It  is  the  whole 
distinction  in  a  man.  You  cannot  serve  two  masters ; 
you  must  serve  one  or  other.  If  your  work  is  first  with 
you,  and  your  fee  second,  work  is  your  master. 

Observe  then,  all  wise  work  is  mainly  threefold  in 

10  character.  It  is  honest,  useful,  and  cheerful.  I  hardly 
know  anything  more  strange  than  that  you  recognize 
honesty  in  play,  and  you  do  not  in  work.  In  your 
lightest  games  you  have  always  some  one  to  see  what 
you  call  "fair  play."     In  boxing,  you  must  hit  fair; 

15  in  racing,  start  fair.  Your  watchword  is  fair  play; 
your  hatred,  foul  play.  Did  it  ever  strike  you  that 
you  wanted  another  watchword  also,  fair  work,  and 
another  hatred  also,  foul  work  ? 


-*S  175  B«- 
THE    MARCH    OF    THE    MARSEILLAIS. 

What  an  uproar!  The  whole  square,  blazing  with 
sunlight,  was  crammed  full  of  people,  all  talking  and 
shouting  and  gesticulating  at  once,  while  the  National 
Guard  was  forming  in  line.  No  one  seemed  to  know 
what  had  happened.  5 

"  What  is  it  all  about  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  What  is  it  all  about  ?  "  repeated  one  of  the  soldiers. 
"The  King  of  France  is  a  traitor.     We  are  betrayed 
by  our  king.     The  Marseilles  battalion  is  on  its  way  to 
Paris.     It  will  pass  through  Avignon.     We  are  going  10 
to  welcome  these  brave  patriots." 

Scarcely  were  we  in  line  when  a  number  of  children 
came  running  towards  us  screaming :  "  Here  they  are  ! 
Here  they  are  !  " 

And  then,  around  the  turn  of  the  road,  brave  in  their  15 
red  plumed  cocked  hats,  appeared  the  leaders  of  the 
Marseilles  battalion,  while  all  the  men  together  burst 
forth  with :  — 

"  Forward,  forward,  countrymen ! 
The  glorious  day  has  come  ! "  20 

It  was  the  "  Marseillais "  that  they  were  singing ; 
and  that  njagnificent  hymn,  heard  then  for  the  first 
time,  stirred  us  down  to  the  very  marrow  of  our  bones. 

On  they  came,  and  what  a  sight  it  was !     Five  hun- 
dred men  sunburnt  as  locust  beans,  with  black  eyes  25 
blazing  like  live  coals  under  bushy  eyebrows,  all  white 


-»e  176  $*■ 

with  the  dust  of  the  road.  They  wore  green  cloth 
coats  turned  back  with  red  like  mine.  Some  wore 
cocked  hats  with  waving  feathers  ;  some,  red  liberty 
caps  with  the  strings  flying  back  over  their  shoulders. 

5  Each  man  had  stuck  in  the  barrel  of  his  gun  a  wil- 
low or  a  poplar  branch  to  shelter  him  from  the  sun, 
and  all  this  shrubbery  cast  dancing  shadows  over  their 
faces  that  made  them  look  still  more  fantastic  and 
strange. 

10      And  when  from  all  those  red  mouths  —  wide  open 
as  a  wolf's  jaws,  with  teeth  gleaming  white  like  a  wild 
beast's  teeth  —  burst  forth   the  chorus,  u  To  arms,  citi- 
zens ! "  it  fairly  made  a  shiver  run  down  one's  spine. 
The  whole  battalion  passed  onward  and  was  swal- 

15  lowed  up  in  the  city  gate.  Then  came  four  men,  haul- 
ing after  them  a  rusty  truck,  on  which  was  a  cannon. 
These  men  were  harnessed  to  the  truck  as  oxen  to  the 
plough,  and,  like  oxen,  pulled  from  head  and  shoulders. 
With  every  muscle  at  full  stretch  they  bent  forward 

20  to  their  heavy  task.  Following  the  truck  came  another 
and  still  another.  Gasping  though  the  men  were  for 
breath,  yet  they  too  raised  their  heads  and  shouted  as 
they  passed  through  our  ranks :  — 

"  To  arms,  citizens,  to  arms  ! " 

25  Day  was  dawning  as  we  began  our  march  with  the 
battalion,  and  soon  we  were  on  the  highroad  under  a 
blazing  sun,  kicking  up  the  dust  like  twenty  flocks  of 
sheep  and  making  our  throats  as  dry  as  limekilns. 


-»8  177  8<~ 

In  spite  of  heat  and  dust,  in  spite  of  thirst  and 
weariness,  no  one  complained  as  we  tramped  steadily 
on ;  one  body  and  one  soul,  with  one  will  and  one  aim 
— and  that  to  make  the  traitor  king  and  those  Parisians 
who  were  traitors  with  him  cry  mercy.  5 

At  midday  we  reached  Orange,  where  the  whole 
town  came  to  meet  us.  I  can  tell  you  I  was  a  proud 
boy  as  I  entered  that  town !  From  my  shoes  to  my 
eyebrows  I  was  white  with  dust.  My  red  cap  was 
cocked  over  one  ear.  I  kept  my  eyes  glaringly  wide  10 
open,  so  as  to  look  fierce  and  dangerous.  I  howled 
the  "  Marseillais  "  at  the  top  of  my  voice  as  I  marched 
—  and  I  was  sure  no  one  saw  or  heard  anybody 
but  me ! 

Hours  went  by;   onward  we  marched  through  the  15 
black  night.     Oh,  how  long  was  that  night  and  how 
weary  that  road !     We  were  too  tired  to  talk.     The 
only  sounds  we  heard  were  the  rumbling  of  the  cannon 
on  the  road  and  the  chirping  of  the  crickets  in  the  fields. 

At  last  we  came  to  a  village  just  as  the  dawn  began  20 
to  whiten  the  sky.     On  the  straw  of  some  threshing- 
floors  we  laid  ourselves  down  for  an  hour's  sleep.     At 
sunrise  we  were  in  line  again. 

This  time  I  stationed  myself  in  the  rear,  beside  the 
cannon.  A  tremendous  longing  to  help  pull  the  guns  25 
had  taken  hold  of  me ;  for  I  thought  that  if  only  I 
could  be  harnessed  up  with  the  others  I  would  not 
seem  so  young.  I  fancied  to  myself  how  I  would  look 
as  we  passed  through  the  towns  and  villages  —  bend- 


-»8  178  St- 
ing over  and  tugging  at  the  straps,  my  eyes  wide  open 
and  rolling  ferociously,  and  all  the  while  shouting  in  a 
voice  as  hoarse  as  I  could  make  it,  "  Liberty'  forever !  " 
"  Your  turn  will  come  in  good  time,  little  man,"  I 
5  was  told.  "We  are  not  in  Paris  yet,  and  before  we 
reach  there  you  will  have  quite  enough  to  do  to  carry 
your  bundle  and  your  gun  and  your  sword,  which  is  a 
good  deal  longer  than  you  are !  " 

This  setback  made   me  turn  red   with  shame,  but 

10  suddenly  the  drum  beat  the  quickstep  and  we  steadied 
our  lines.  We  were  entering  the  town  beyond  which 
we  were  to  rest. 

How  delicious  it  was  to  go  down  on  one's  elbows 
and  stretch  out  at  full  length  on  the  soft  grass  in  the 

is  shade  of  the  poplars  and  willows !  I  let  my  head  fall 
between  my  hands  and  watched  with  great  interest  an 
ant  who  was  carrying  through  the  grass  a  crumb  of 
bread  bigger  than  himself.  The  little  creature  would 
lose   its   way  in  a   thick   tangle  of   grass   blades,  or 

20  would  slip  down  from  a  tall  stem.  In  pity  for  him  I 
would  take  a  twig  and  help  him  on  his  way ;  putting 
the  twig  under  him  very  gently  so  as  not  to  hurt  him, 
and  so  lifting  him  over  a  hard  pass  that  would  have 
cost  him  an  hour  of  climbing  to  cross  alone.     And  so 

25  the  afternoon  wore  away. 

We  marched  all  night.  Now  we  were  coming  to  the 
frontiers  of  the  north.  There  were  no  more  olive  trees, 
and  the  soft  sea  wind  of  the  Mediterranean  was  far 
away.     But  this  was  only  the  beginning  of  the  march. 


-»8  179  8*- 

We  went  steadily  on,  drinking  the  water  of  brooks 
and  ditches,  and  taking  only  snatches  of  sleep  as  the 
chance  came. 

The  endless  road  was  always  the  same  long,  weary 
way.  Footsore,  hungry,  weary,  still  we  toiled  on.  5 
Some  of  the  men  began  to  drag  behind,  limping  on 
bleeding  feet;  but  they  struggled  bravely  along.  To 
drown  the  murmurs  of  pain,  which  even  the  best  of 
them  could  not  wholly  stifle,  we  sang  the  "  Marseillais." 

And  at  last,  after  days  of  weariness  and  hunger  and  10 
thirst,  we  saw  on  the  edge  of   the   green   plain   the 
towers  and  spires  of  Paris. 

A  great  crowd  followed  us  into  the  city,  drawn  on 
partly  by  the  steady  roll  of  the  drums,  but  more 
strongly  by  the  terrible  chant  of  the  "  Marseillais,"  15 
which  all  the  five  hundred  men  of  the  battalion  sang 
in  one  tremendous  voice.  Soon  the  crowd  caught  the 
words  of  the  chorus  and  sang  with  us  —  and  then  it 
was  no  longer  five  hundred,  but  a  thousand,  ten  thou- 
sand, twenty  thousand  singers,  singing  with  one  voice.  20 

I  sang  as  if  I  would  tear  my  throat  open.  From 
time  to  time  I  would  look  back  to  see  the  overwhelm- 
ing, howling,  terrible  flood  of  people  pouring  in  close 
behind  us.  Our  weeks  and  weeks  of  marching  were  m 
over.  It  seemed  as  if  a  great  mountain  were  gallop-  25 
ing  after  us  with  its  peaks  and  valleys  and  forests 
shaken  and  riven  by  the  avalanche,  the  tempest,  the 
earthquake  of  God! 

Adapted  from  Janvier's  translation  from  the 
"Provengal  of  Fttix  Gras." 


-»e  i8o  9«- 


THE    LADY    OF    SHALOTT. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 
For  a  sketch  of  the  life  of  Alfred  Tennyson,  see  "  Cyr's  Fourth  Reader.' 

Part  I. 

On  either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky ; 
And  through  the  field  the  road  runs  by 

To  many-towered  Camelot ; 
And  up  and  down  the  people  go, 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Hound  an  island  there  below, 

The  island  of  Shalott. 


-»8  181   &- 

Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver, 
Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver, 
Through  the  wave  that  runs  forever, 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

Flowing  down  to  Camelot. 
Four  gray  walls  and  four  gray  towers, 
Overlook  a  space  of  flowers, 
And  the  silent  isle  embowers 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

By  the  margin,  willow-veiled, 
Slide  the  heavy  barges  trailed 
By  slow  horses  ;  and  unhailed, 
The  shallop  flitteth  silken-sailed, 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot 
But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand  ? 
Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand  ? 
Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott? 

Only  reapers,  reaping  early 
In  among  the  bearded  barley, 
Hear  a  song  that  echoes  cheerly 
From  the  river  winding  clearly, 

Down  to  towered  Camelot : 
And  by  the  moon  the  reaper  weary, 
Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy, 
Listening,  whispers,  "  'T  is  the  fairy 

Lady  of  Shalott.', 


-»e  182  8«- 

Part  II. 

There  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 
A  magic  web  with  colors  gay. 
She  has  heard  a  whisper  say, 
A  curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 
She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be, 
And  so  she  weaveth  steadily, 
And  little  other  care  hath  she, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  moving  through  a  mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  all  the  year, 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 
There  she  sees  the  highway  near 

Winding  down  to  Camelot : 
There  the  river  eddy  whirls, 
And  there  the  surly  village-churls, 
And  the  red  cloaks  of  market-girls, 

Pass  onward  from  Shalott. 

Sometimes  a  troop  of  damsels  glad, 
An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad, 
Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd-lad, 
Or  long-haired  page  in  crimson  clad, 

Goes  by  to  towered  Camelot ; 
And  sometimes  through  the  mirror  blue 
The  knights  come  riding  two  and  two : 


-*8  183  8«- 

She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true, 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 
To  weave  the  mirror's  magic  sights, 
For  often  through  the  silent  nights 
A  funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights, 

And  music,  went  to  Camelot : 
Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed ; 
"  I  am  half  sick  of  shadows,"  said 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Part  III. 

A  bow-shot  from  her  bower-eaves, 
He  rode  between  the  barley-sheaves, 
The  sun  came  dazzling  through  the  leaves, 
And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 

Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. 
A  red-cross  knight  forever  kneeled 
To  a  lady  in  his  shield, 
That  sparkled  on  the  yellow  field, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

The  gemmy  bridle  glittered  free, 
Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 
Hung  in  the  golden  Galaxy. 
The  bridle  bells  rang  merrily, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot : 


-4fl  184  g»- 

And  from  his  blazoned  baldric  slung 
A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung, 
And  as  he  rode  his  armor  rung, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

His  broad  clear  brow  in  sunlight  glowed ; 
On  burnished  hooves  his  war-horse  trode ; 
From  underneath  his  helmet  flowed 
His  coal  black  curls  as  on  he  rode, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river 
He  flashed  into  the  crystal  mirror, 
"  Tirra  lirra,"  by  the  river 

Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom, 
She  made  three  paces  through  the  room, 
She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom, 
She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume, 

She  looked  down  to  Camelot. 
Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide ; 
The  mirror  cracked  from  side  to  side ; 
"  The  curse  is  come  upon  me  !  "  cried 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Part  IV. 

In  the  stormy  east  wind  straining, 

The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning, 

The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  complaining, 


-»8  185  9*- 

Heavily  the  low  sky  raining 

Over  towered  Camelot ; 

Down  she  came  and  found  a  boat 

Beneath  a  willow  left  afloat, 

And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  down  the  river's  dim  expanse  — 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance, 
Seeing  all  his  own  mischance  — 
With  a  glassy  countenance, 

Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 
And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay ; 
The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Lying,  robed  in  snowy  white 
That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right  — 
The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light  — 
Through  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot 
And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among, 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Heard  a  carol,  mournful,  holy, 
Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly, 
Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly, 


-»6  186  9«- 

And  her  eyes  were  darkened  wholly, 

Turned  to  towered  Camelot. 

For  ere  she  reached  upon  the  tide 

The  first  house  by  the  water-side, 

Singing  in  her  song  she  died, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Under  tower  and  balcony, 

By  garden-wall  and  gallery, 

A  gleaming  shape  she  floated  by, 

Dead-pale  between  the  houses  high, 

Silent  into  Camelot. 
Out  upon  the  wharves  they  came, 
Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame, 
And  round  the  prow  they  read  her  name. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Who  is  this  ?  and  what  is  here  ? 
And  in  the  lighted  palace  near 
Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer ; 
And  they  crossed  themselves  for  fear  : 

All  the  knights  at  Camelot : 
But  Lancelot  mused  a  little  space ; 
He  said,  "  She  has  a  lovely  face ; 
God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott." 


-»8  187  &- 


JOHN  LOTHROP   MOTLEY. 

John  Lothrop  Motley  was  born  in  Dorchester, 
now  a  part  of  Boston,  Mass.,  on  the  15th  of  April, 
1814.  His  parents  belonged  to  old  New  England 
families,  and  John  never  tired  of  hearing  their  stories 
of  the  early  settlers.  His  great-grandfather  was  killed  5 
by  the  Indians,  and  his 
grandmother,  who  was  a 
little  child  at  the  time  of 
the  attack,  would  have 
lost  her  life  or  been  taken 
prisoner,  if  the  maid  ser- 
vant had  not  hidden  her 
under  a  large  tub  in  the 
cellar. 

John  was  a  bright  boy, 
truthful,  and  with  a  quick 
sense  of  honor.  He  was 
very  fond  of  reading  and 

was  seldom  seen  without  a  book  in  his  hand.    He  had  a 
talent  for  declaiming,  and  one  of  his  younger  brothers  20 
remembers  being  wrapped  in  a  shawl,  and  kept  quiet 
with  sweetmeats,  to  represent,  the  dead  Caesar,  while 
John  delivered  the  speech  of  Antony  over  his  body. 

His  father's  house  was  a  large,  homelike  dwelling, 
and  the  children  were  allowed  the  freedom  of  the  garret  25 
and   garden.     Many  a  treasure  was   stowed   away  in 
trunks  under  the  eaves,  and  John  and  his  playfellows, 


hQ  188  8<~ 

among  them  Wendell  Phillips,  who  afterward  became  a 

famous  orator,  often  arrayed  themselves  in  long  cloaks 

and  plumed  hats,  and  acted  plays  or  scenes  from  history. 

John  was  sent  to  school  at  "Northampton  when  he 

5  was  about  ten  years  old.  He  was  a  brilliant  scholar 
and  gained  a  great  reputation  among  the  boys  because 
of  his  ability  to  declaim.  One  of  his  teachers  was 
George  Bancroft,  the  historian,  who  little  thought  that 
his  clever  pupil  would  some  day  rank  with  himself  as 

10  an  author. 

At  the  age  of  thirteen,  the  future  historian  entered 
Harvard  College.  He  was  the  youngest  member  of  his 
class,  and  his  reputation  as  a  scholar  and  his  handsome 
person  attracted  much  attention.     During  his  first  year 

15  in  college,  young  Motley  held  the  second  or  third  rank 
in  his  class.  He  led  a  very  pleasant  life,  receiving  his 
friends  in  his  handsomely  furnished  room,  roaming  about 
the  old,  historic  town,  and  spending  his  leisure  time  in 
reading  and  writing  sketches  and  poems  for  his  own 

20  amusement. 

After  completing  his  college  course,  he  went  to  Ger- 
many and  spent  two  years  at  the  Universities  of  Berlin 
and  Gottingen.  One  of  the  friends  made  at  this  time 
was   Prince   Bismarck,   who   was   one    of   his   fellow- 

26  students  at  Gottingen.  The  two  young  men  lodged  in 
the  same  house  and  spent  much  time  together. 

On  his  return  to  America,  Motley  studied  law.  He 
was  married  when  he  was  twenty-three  to  Mary  Ben- 
jamin, and  two  years  later  his  first  work,  a  novel  called 


-*8  189  8«- 

"  Morton's  Hope,"  was  published.     This  book  contains 
many  scenes  drawn  from  the  life  of  the  author. 

In  1841  Mr.  Motley  was  sent  by  the  government  to 
fill  an  office  in  Russia.     He  spent  several  months  in 
St.  Petersburg,  but  found  the  climate  so  trying  that    5 
he  was  unwilling  to  take  his  family  to  that  country, 
so  resigned  his  position  and  returned  to  America. 

Mr.  Motley's  first  historical  work  was  an  article  on 
"  Russia "  and  "  Peter  the  Great,"  which  appeared  in 
the  "  North  American  Review."     It  was  a  brilliant  essay  10 
and  gave  the  author  a  place  among  the  foremost  writers 
of  the  day. 

After  the  success  of  this  article,  Mr.  Motley  deter- 
mined to  devote  his  time  to  historical  writing,  and  he 
began  reading  for  a  history  of  the  Dutch  Republic,  is 
Meanwhile  his  second  novel,  "  Merry-Mount,"  had  been 
published.  This  was  a  romance  of  the  Massachusetts 
Colony,  and  received  more  attention  than  the  story  of 
"  Morton's  Hope." 

After  working  for  several  years  on  the  Dutch  his-  20 
tory,  Mr.  Motley  decided  that  in  order  to  make  his 
work  complete  he  must  consult  the  libraries  of  Europe. 

He  took  his  family  abroad,  and  started  his  work 
anew,  visiting  the  scenes  which  he  was  describing,  and 
searching  in  the  libraries  for  old  letters  and  documents.  25 
He  so  lived  in  his  work  that  to  his  imagination,  Brussels 
seemed  peopled  with  the  kings  and  heroes  of  bygone 
days. 

For  ten  years  he  labored  upon  this  history,  and  then 


h8  190  S«- 

published  it  at  his  own  expense,  for  he  could  find  no 
publisher  willing  to  undertake  so  large  a  work. 

The  book  was  widely  read  and  highly  praised.  It 
was  reprinted  in  New  York  and  translated  into  several 

5  languages,  and  the  author,  who  had  almost  forgotten 
living  men  in  his  close  study  of  historical  characters, 
found  himself  the  object  of  every  attention. 

Motley  was  forty  years  of  age  when  "  The  Rise  of 
the  Dutch  Republic  "  was  published.      He  spent  the 

io  next  winter  in  this  country,  enjoying  its  social  life,  and 
then  returned  to  England,  where  he  was  received  with 
every  attention.  He  was  a  welcome  guest  in  the  best 
houses,  and  the  kindness  and  pleasure  with  which  he 
was  received  added  much  to  his  happiness. 

15  He  again  devoted  himself  to  study,  and  in  four  years 
the  first  part  of  his  second  historical  work,  "  The  His- 
tory of  the  United  Netherlands,"  was  published.  It  in- 
creased the  reputation  gained  by  the  first  history.  The 
last  volumes  of  this  work  were  not   published  until 

20  eight  years  later. 

Mr.  Motley  was  a  true  American.  When  the  Civil 
War  broke  out  he  was  deeply  interested  in  the  wel- 
fare of  his  country  and  returned  to  the  United  States. 
He  was  appointed  Minister  to  Austria,  which  position 

25  he  held  for  six  years,  making  his  home  in  Vienna. 
During  this  time  he  met  his  old  friend,  Bismarck. 
Motley's  daughter  writes  of  their  meeting :  — 

"  Bismarck  dined  with  us  twice  during  his  short  stay, 
and  was  most  delightful  and  agreeable.     When  he  and 


-•8  191  8«- 

my  father  were  together  they  seemed  to  live  over  the 
youthful  days  they  had  spent  together  as  students,  and 
many  were  the  anecdotes  of  their  boyish  frolics  which 
Bismarck  related." 

After  resigning  his  office  in  Vienna,  Motley  returned   s 
to  America,  and  two  years  later  was  sent  as  Minister  to 
England,  remaining  there  one  year. 

He  then  devoted  his  time  to  literary  work,  and  wrote 
the  life  of  John  of  Barneveld,  Advocate  of  Holland. 
In  order  to  search  for  material  for  this  work  he  took  10 
his  family  to  The  Hague,  where  the  Queen  of  Holland 
had  made  ready  a  house  for  him.  He  completed  this 
work;  but  it  was  his  last,  for  his  health  was  failing, 
and  after  the  death  of  his  wife  in  1874  he  laid  aside 
his  pen.  is 

Mr.  Motley's  last  days  were  spent  in  England.     He 
died  in  that  country  in  May,  1877.. 


HQ  192  6* 

THE   ABDICATION   OF  CHARLES   V. 

JOHN   LOTHROP   MOTLEY. 

On  the  twenty-fifth  day  of  October,  1555,  the  estates 
of  the  Netherlands  were  assembled  in  the  great  hall  of 
the  palace  at  Brussels.  They  had  been  summoned  to 
be  the  witnesses  and  the  guarantees  of  the  abdication 

5  which  Charles  V.  had  long  before  resolved  upon,  and 
which  he  was  that  day  to  execute. 

The  palace  where  the  states-general  were  upon  this 
occasion  convened  was  a  spacious  and  convenient  build- 
ing.    In  front  was  a  large,  open  square,  enclosed  by  an 

io  iron  railing;  in  the  rear  an  extensive  and  beautiful 
park,  filled  with  forest  trees,  and  containing  gardens 
and  labyrinths,  fish  ponds  and  game  preserves,  foun- 
tains and  promenades,  race  courses  arid  archery 
grounds. 

15  The  main  entrance  to  this  edifice  opened  upon  a 
spacious  hall,  connected  with  a  beautiful  chapel.  The 
hall  was  celebrated  for  its  size,  harmonious  proportions, 
and  the  richness,  of  its  decorations.  At  the  western  end 
a  spacious  platform,  or  stage,  with  six  or  seven  steps, 

20  had  been  constructed.  In  the  center  of  the  stage  was  a 
splendid  canopy,  decorated  with  the  arms  of  Burgundy, 
beneath  which  were  placed  three  gilded  armchairs.  The 
theater  was  filled  —  the  audience  was  eager  with  expec- 
tation—  the  actors  were  yet  to  arrive. 

26  As  the  clock  struck  three,  the  hero  of  the  scene 
appeared.     CaBsar,  as  he  was  always  designated  in  the 


-»e  193  8*- 

classic  language  of  the  day,  entered,  leaning  on  the 
shoulder  of  William  of  Orange.  They  came  from  the 
chapel  and  were  immediately  followed  by  Philip  II.  and 
Queen  Mary  of  Hungary,  and  other  great  personages 
came  afterward,  accompanied  by  a  glittering  throng.        5 

All  the  company  present  had  risen  to  their  feet  as 
the  Emperor  entered.  By  his  command  all  immediately 
afterward  resumed  their  places.  The  benches  at  either 
end  of  the  platform  were  accordingly  filled  with  the 
royal  and  princely  personages  invited,  with  the  Fleece  10 
Knights,  with  the  members  of  the  three  great  councils, 
and  with  the  governors.  The  Emperor,  the  King,  and 
the  Queen  of  Hungary  were*  left  conspicuous  in  the 
center  of  the  scene. 

Charles  V.  was  then  fifty-five  years  old,  but  he  was  15 
already  decrepit  with  premature  old  age.  Broad  in  the 
shoulders,  deep  in  the  chest,  very  muscular  in  the  arms 
and  legs,  he  had  been  able  to  match  himself  with  all 
competitors  in  the  tourney  and  the  ring,  and  to  van- 
quish the  bull  with  his  own  hand  in  the  favorite  national  20 
amusement  of  Spain.  He  had  been  able  in  the  field  to 
do  the  duty  of  captain  and  soldier,  to  endure  fatigue 
and  exposure,  and  every  privation  except  fasting. 

These  personal  advantages  were  now  departed. 
Crippled  in  hands,  knees,  and  legs,  he  supported  25 
himself  with  difficulty  upon  a  crutch,  with  the  aid  of 
an  attendant's  shoulder.  In  face  he  had  always  been 
extremely  ugly.  His  hair  was  white  with  age,  close- 
clipped  and  bristling;  his  beard  was  gray,  coarse,  and 


-*8  194  &- 

shaggy.  His  forehead  was  spacious  and  commanding  ; 
the  eye  was  dark  blue,  with  an  expression  both  majestic 
and  benignant. 

So  much  for  the  father.     The  son,  Philip  II.,  was  a 
5  small,  meager  man,  much  below  the  middle  height,  with 
thin  legs,  a  narrow  chest,  and  the  shrinking,  timid  air 
of  an  habitual  invalid. 

In  face  he  was  the  living  image  of  his  father,  having 
the  same  broad  forehead  and  blue  eye,  with  the  same 

io  aquiline  but  better  proportioned  nose.  His  demeanor 
in  public  was  still,  silent,  almost  sepulchral. 

Such  was  the  personal  appearance  of  the  man  who 
was  about  to  receive  into,  his  single  hand  the  destinies 
of  half  the  world ;  whose  single  will  was,  for  the  future, 

is  to  shape  the  fortunes  of  every  individual  then  present, 

of  many  millions  more  in  Europe,  America,  and  at  the 

ends  of  the  earth,  and  of  countless  millions  yet  unborn. 

The  three  royal  personages  being  seated  upon  chairs 

placed  triangularly  under  the  canopy,  such  of  the  audi- 

20  ence  as  had  seats  provided  for  them  now  took  their 
places  and  the  proceedings  commenced.  Philibert  de 
Bruxelles,  a  member  of  the  council  of  the  Netherlands, 
arose  at  the  Emperor's  command  and  made  a  long  ora- 
tion.    He  spoke  of  the  Emperor's  warm  affection  for 

25 'the  provinces,  of  his  deep  regret  that  his  broken  health 
and  failing  powers  compelled  him  to  resign  his  sover- 
eignty and  to  seek  relief  for  his  shattered  frame  in 
a  more  genial  climate.  He  rejoiced,  however,  that  his 
son  was  both  vigorous  and  experienced,  and  that  his 


•*8  195  B«- 

recent  marriage  with  the  Queen  of  England  had  fur- 
nished the  provinces  with  a  most  valuable  alliance.  He 
concluded  with  a  tremendous  exhortation  to  Philip  on 
the  necessity  of  maintaining  religion  in  its  purity. 

After  this  the  councilor  proceeded  to  read  the  deed  5 
of  cession  by  which  Philip,  already  sovereign  of  Sicily, 
Naples,  Milan,  and  titular  king  of  England,  France, 
and  Jerusalem,  now  received  all  the  Burgundian 
property,  including,  of  course,  the  seventeen  Nether- 
lands. 10 

The  Emperor  then  rose  to  his  feet.  Supported  upon 
his  crutch  and  upon  the  shoulder  of  William  of  Orange, 
he  proceeded  to  address  the  states. 

As  long  as  God  granted  him  health,  he  continued, 
only  enemies  could  have  regretted  that  Charles  was  is 
living  and  reigning ;  but  now  that  his  strength  was  but 
vanity,  and  life  fast  ebbing  away,  his  love  for  dominion, 
his  affection  for  his  subjects,  and  his  regard  for  their 
interests  required  his  departure. 

Turning  toward  Philip,  he  observed  that  for  a  father  20 
to  bequeath  so  magnificent  an  empire  to  his  son  was  a 
deed  worthy  of  gratitude;  but  that  when  the  father 
thus  descended  into  his  g;rave  before  his  time,  and  by 
an  anticipated  and  living  burial  sought  to  provide  for 
the  welfare  of  his  realms  and  the  grandeur  of  his  son,  25 
the  benefit  thus  conferred  was  surely  far  greater. 

Posterity  would  applaud  his  abdication  should  his  son 
prove  worthy  of  his  bounty ;  and  that  could  only  be  by 
living  in  the  fear  of  God,  and  by  maintaining  law  and 


Drawn  by  Frank  T.  Merrill.  JE 

CHARLES   V.    BLESSING    HIS    SON    PHILIP 


y  II.  \V.  Peck  well. 


-»Q  197  8*- 

justice  in  all  their  purity  as  the  true  foundation  of  the 
realm. 

In  conclusion  he  entreated  the  estates,  and  through 
them  the  nation,  to  render  obedience  to  their  new 
prince ;  begging  them  at  the  same  time  to  pardon  him  5 
all  errors  or  offenses  which  he  might  have  committed 
toward  them  during  his  reign,  and  assuring  them  that 
he  should  unceasingly  remember  their  obedience  and 
affection  in  his  every  prayer  to  that  Being  to  whom 
the  remainder  of  his  life"  should  be  dedicated.  10 

Sobs  were  heard  throughout  every  portion  of  the 
hall,  and  tears  poured  profusely  from  every  eye.  As 
for  the  Emperor  himself,  he  sank  almost  fainting  upon 
his  chair  as  he  concluded  his  address.  An  ashy  paleness 
overspread  his  countenance,  and  he  wept  like  a  child.     15 

Even  the  icy  Philip  was  almost  softened  as  he  rose 
to  perform  his  part  in  the  ceremony.  Dropping  upon 
his  knees  before  his  father's  feet,  he  reverently  kissed 
his  hand.  Charles  placed  his  hands  solemnly  upon  his 
son's  head  and  blessed  him.  Then  raising  him  in  his  20 
arms  he  tenderly  embraced  him,  saying  as  he  did  so,  to 
the  great  potentates  around  him,  that  he  felt  a  sincere 
compassion  for  the  son  on  whose  shoulders  so  heavy  a 
weight  had  just  devolved. 

Philip  now  uttered  a  few  words  expressive  of   his  25 
duty  to  his  father  and  his  affection  for  his  people. 
Turning  to  the  orders,  he  signified  his  regret  that  he 
was  unable  to  address  them  either  in  the  French  or 
Flemish  language,  and  was  obliged  to  ask  their  atten- 


^8  198  3<- 

tion  to  the  Bishop  of  Arras,  who  would  act  as  his 
interpreter.  Antony  Perrenot  accordingly  arose,  and 
in  smooth,  fluent,  and  well-turned  commonplaces  ex- 
pressed at  great  length  the  gratitude  of  Philip  toward 

5  his  father,  with  his  firm  determination  to  walk  in  the 

path  of   duty,  and  to  obey  his  father's  counsels  and 

example  in  the  future  administration  of  the  provinces. 

This  address  was  responded  to  by  Jacob  Maas,  who 

had  been  selected  to  reply  on  the  behalf  of  the  states- 

10  general.  Queen  Mary  of  Hungary,  the  regent  of  the 
Netherlands  during  the  past  twenty-five  years,  then 
rose  to  resign  her  office,  making  a  brief  address  ex- 
pressive of  her  affection  for  the  people.  Again  Maas 
responded,  asserting  in  terms  of  fresh  compliment  and 

15  elegance  the  uniform  satisfaction  of  the  provinces  with 
her  conduct  during  her  whole  career. 

The  orations  and  replies  having  now  been  brought 
to  a  close,  the  ceremony  was  ended.  The  Emperor, 
leaning  on  the  shoulders  of  the  Prince  of  Orange  and 

20  of  the  Count  de  Buren,  slowly  left  the  hall,  followed 
by  Philip,  the  Queen  of  Hungary,  and  the  whole  court ; 
all  in  the  same  order  in  which  they  had  entered,  and 
by  the  same  passage  into  the  chapel. 

From  '•  The  Rise  of  the  Butch  Republic.'1'' 


-»6  199  9«- 


MAZEPPA'S  RIDE. 


[Abridged.] 
LORD  BYRON. 

Lord  Byron  was  born  in  London  in  1788.  When  he  was 
ten  years  old  he  inherited  a  title  of  nobility  and  took  possession 
of  Newstead  Abbey,  the  ancient  family  seat  near  Nottingham. 

His  early  education  was  received  at  private  schools,  and  he 
entered    Trinity    College,    Cam- 
bridge, when  he  was  seventeen 
years  of  age. 

Two  years  later  his  first  vol- 
ume of  verses,  "Hours  of  Idle- 
ness/' was  published.  It  was 
severely  criticised,  and  the  young 
poet  replied  in  so  savage  a  poem 
that  he  attracted  much  attention. 

After  leaving  college,  Byron 
traveled  along  the  shores  of  the 
Mediterranean,  visiting  Greece 
and  Turkey.  On  his  return  he 
published  the  first  part  of  "Childe 
Harold,"  which  is  generally  con- 
sidered his  greatest  work.  After  the  publication  of  this  poem  he  20 
was  recognized  as  one  of  the  leading  poets  of  England. 

Byron  took  final  leave  of  England  when  he  was  twenty-eight, 
and  lived  for  several  years  in  Switzerland  and  Italy,  where  he 
wrote  some  famous  poems. 

The  cause  of  Greek  independence  appealed  so  strongly  to  him  25 
that  he  raised  a  large  sum  of  money,  and  in  the  summer  of  1823 
he  sailed  to  the  assistance  of  the  Greeks.     He  was  made  com- 
mander-in-chief of  an  expedition,  but  was  taken  ill  and  died  on 
the  19th  of  April,  1824. 


-*6  200  9»-  t 

"  i  Bring  forth  the  horse  ! '     The  horse  was  brought ; 

In  truth  he  was  a  noble  steed, 

A  Tartar  of  the  Ukraine  breed, 
Who  look'd  as  though  the  speed  of  thought 
Were  in  his  limbs ;  but  he  was  wild, 

Wild  as  the  wild  deer,  and  untaught, 
With  spur  and  bridle  undefiled  — 

'T  was  but  a  day  he  had  been  caught; 
And  snorting,  with  erected  mane, 
And  struggling  fiercely,  but  in  vain, 
In  the  full  foam  of  wrath  and  dread 
To  me  the  desert-born  was  led ; 
They  bound  me  on,  that  menial  throng, 
Upon  his  back  with  many  a  thong ; 
Then  loosed  him  with  a  sudden  lash  — 
Away !  —  away !  —  and  on  we  dash  !  — 
Torrents  less  rapid  and  less  rash. 


"  Away,  away,  my  steed  and  I, 
Upon  the  pinions  of  the  wind, 
All  human  dwellings  left  behind ; 

We  sped  like  meteors  through  the  sky ; 

Town  —  village  —  none  were  on  our  track, 
But  a  wild  plain  of  far  extent, 

And  bounded  by  a  forest  black ; 

And,  save  the  scarce  seen  battlement 

On  distant  heights  of  some  strong  hold, 


-»6  20 1  9»- 

Against  the  Tartars  built  of  old, 
No  trace  of  man. 


"  We  near'd  the  wild  wood  —  'twas  so  wide, 
I  saw  no  bounds  on  either  side ; 
'Twas  a  wild  waste  of  underwood, 
And  here  and  there  a  chestnut  stood, 
The  strong  oak,  and  the  hardy  pine ; 


We  rustled  through  the  leaves  like  wind, 
Left  shrubs,  and  trees,  and  wolves  behind ; 
Where'er  we  flew  they  followed  on, 
Nor  left  us  with  the  morning  sun ; 
Behind  I  saw  them,  scarce  a  rood, 
At  daybreak  winding  through  the  wood, 
And  through  the  night  had  heard  their  feet 
Their  stealing,  rustling  step  repeat. 
Oh !  how  I  wish'd  for  spear  or  sword, 
At  least  to  die  amidst  the  horde, 
And  perish  —  if  it  must  be  so  — 
At  bay,  destroying  many  a  foe ! 


"  Up  rose  the  sun ;  the  mists  were  curl'd 
Back  from  the  solitary  world. 
The  very  air  was  mute ; 


-»6  202  Qh- 

And  not  an  insect's  shrill  small  horn, 
Nor  matin  bird's  new  voice,  was  borne 
From  herb  nor  thicket.     Many  a  werst> 
Panting  as  if  his  heart  would  burst, 
The  weary  brute  still  stagger' d  on ; 
And  still  we  were  —  or  seem'd  —  alone. 
At  length,  while  reeling  on  our  way, 
Methought  I  heard  a  courser  neigh, 
From  out  yon  tuft  of  blackening  firs. 
Is  it  the  wind  those  branches  stirs  ? 
No,  no !  from  out  the  forest  prance 

A  trampling  troop ;  I  see  them  come ! 
In  one  vast  squadron  they  advance ! 

I  strove  to  cry  —  my  lips  were  dumb. 
The  steeds  rush  on  in  plunging  pride ; 
But  where  are  they  the  reins  to  guide  ? 
A  thousand  horse  —  and  none  to  ride ! 
With  flowing  tail,  and  flying  mane, 
Wide  nostrils,  never  stretch' d  by  pain, 
Mouths  bloodless  to  the  bit  or  rein, 
And  feet  that  iron  never  shod, 
And  flanks  unscarr'd  by  spur  or  rod, 

Came  thickly  thundering  on, 
As  if  our  faint  approach  to  meet ; 
The  sight  re-nerved  my  courser's  feet, 
A  moment  staggering,  feebly  fleet, 
A  moment,  with  a  faint  low  neigh, 

He  answer'd,  and  then  fell ; 
With  gasps  and  glazing  eyes  he  lay, 


-*6  203  8«- 

And  reeking  limbs  immovable, 
His  first  and  last  career  is  done ! 
On  came  the  troop  —  they  saw  him  stoop, 

They  saw  me  strangely  bound  along 

His  back  with  many  a  bloody  thong : 
They  stop  —  they  start  —  they-  snuff  the  air, 
Gallop  a  moment  here  and  there, 
Approach,  retire,  wheel  round  and  round, 
Then  plunging  back  with  sudden  bound, 
Headed  by  one  black  mighty  steed, 
Who  seem'd  the  patriarch  of  his  breed, 

Without  a  single  speck  or  hair 
Of  white  upon  his  shaggy  hide ; 
They  snort  —  they  foam  —  neigh  —  swerve  aside, 
And  backward  to  the  forest  fly, 
By  instinct,  from  a  human  eye. 

They  left  me  there  to  my  despair, 
Link'd  to  the  dead  and  stiffening  wretch, 
Whose  lifeless  limbs  beneath  me  stretch, 
Relieved  from  that  unwonted  weight, 
From  whence  I  could  not  extricate 
Nor  him,  nor  me  —  and  there  we  lay, 

The  dying  on  the  dead ! 
I  little  deem'd  another  day 

Would  see  my  houseless,  helpless  head. 


"I  woke  —  Where  was  I? — Do  I  see 
A  human  face  look  down  on  me  ? 


-♦6  204  8»- 

And  doth  a  roof  above  me  close  ? 
Do  these  limbs  on  a  couch  repose  ? 
Is  this  a  chamber  where  I  lie  ? 
And  is  it  mortal,  yon  bright  eye, 
That  watches  me  with  gentle  glance  ? 

I  closed  my  own  again  once  more, 
As  doubtful  that  the  former  trance 

Could  not  as  yet  be  o'er. 
A  slender  girl,  long-hair' d,  and  tall, 
Sate  watching  by  the  cottage  wall ; 
The  sparkle  of  her  eye  I  caught, 
Even  with  my  first  return  of  thought ; 
For  ever  and  anon  she  threw 

A  prying,  pitying  glance  on  me 

With  her  black  eyes  so  wild  and  free ; 
I  gazed,  and  gazed,  until  I  knew 

No  vision  it  could  be,  — 
But  that  I  lived,  and  was  released." 

From  "  Mazeppa. " 


-*8  205  &- 

THE    GENIUS    OF    A    GREAT    ARCHITECT. 

PHILLIPS  BROOKS. 

Phillips  Brooks  was  born  in  Boston,  December  13, 1835.  His 
college  education  was  received  at  Harvard,  after  which  he  studied 
theology  at  the  seminary  in  Alexandria,  Va. 

After  preaching  for  several  years  in  Philadelphia  he  removed 
to  Boston  and  filled  the  office  of  rector  of  Trinity  Church,  a    5 
beautiful  edifice  which  was  designed  by  the  famous  architect, 
Henry  H.  Richardson. 

Mr.  Brooks  was  one  of  the  most  brilliant  pulpit  orators  of  his 
denomination,  and  his  printed  sermons  are  widely  read. 

He  was  offered  the  position  of  preacher  and  professor  at  Har-  10 
vard  University,  but  declined.     In  1891  he  was  made  Bishop  of 
Massachusetts.     His  death  occurred  in  January,  1893. 

Bishop  Brooks  was  loved  and  honored  throughout  England 
and  America ;  and  memorials  to  him  have  been  placed  in  Lon- 
don, at  Harvard  University,  and  in  several  churches.  15 

From  1872  to  1886  —  fourteen  years  —  was  the  great 
full  period  of  Henry  H.  Richardson's  life  and  work. 
And  what  years  they  were !  He  had  realized  his 
powers.  The  fire  of  distinct  genius,  indefinable  and 
unmistakable,  was  burning  brightly.  His  buildings  20 
opened  like  flowers  out  of  his  life.  It  is  not  in  my 
purpose  now  to  name  even  his  greatest  works,  or  to 
describe  the  order  in  which  they  came,  but  rather  to 
characterize  some  of  the  qualities,  both  of  the  man  and 
of  his  work,  as  they  showed  themselves  in  those  glori-  25 
ous  years  when  —  all  over  the  country,  in  Albany  and 
Washington  and  Boston  and  Cincinnati  and  Chicago, 


-»8  206  9«- 

and  in  quiet  villages,  where  he  made  the  town  hall  and 
library  a  perpetual  inspiration,  and  along  the  railroads, 
where  he  made  the  station  houses  bear  witness  to  the 
power  of  art  to  beautify  the  most  prosaic  uses,  and  in 

5  dwellings,  which  he  filled  with  dignity  and  grace  — 
everywhere  the  man  genuinely  and  spontaneously 
blended  his  own  nature  with  the  purposes  and  material 
of  the  structures  which  he  built. 

The  first  quality  of  true  genius  certainly  was  in  all 

10  that  he  did.  It  was  instinctive  and  spontaneous.  Based 
upon  thorough  study,  genuinely  expressing  great  ideas, 
it  yet  was  true  that  there  was  much  in  Richardson's 
work  of  which  he  gave  and  could  give  to  himself  little 
or  no  account  as  to  how  it  came  to  pass.     He  was  not 

15  a  man  of  theories.'  His  life  passed  into  his  buildings 
by  ways  too  subtle  even  for  himself  to  understand. 

And  so  he  has  done  a  larger  work  than  he  ever  delib- 
erately resolved  to  do.  He  simply  did  his  work  in  his 
own  way,  and  the  style  was  there. 

20  It  is  a  style  of  breadth  and  simplicity  that  corre- 
sponds with  his  whole  nature.  Never  somber,  because 
the  irrepressible  buoyancy  and  cheerfulness  of  his  life 
are  in  it ;  never  attaining  the  highest  reach  of  spiritu- 
ality and  exaltation,  for  his  own  being  had  its  strong 

25  association  with  the  earth,  and  knew  no  mystic  raptures 
or  transcendental  aspirations;  healthy  and  satisfying 
within  its  own  range,  and  suggesting  larger  things  as 
he  himself  always  suggested  the  possession  of  powers 
which  he  had  never  realized  and  used  —  something  like 


->8  207  8«- 

this  is  the  character  of  the  buildings  which  he  has  left 
behind  him. 

He  .grew  simpler  as  he  grew  older  and  greater.     He 
often  seemed  to  disregard  and  almost  despise  detail  of 
ornament.     He  loved  a  broad,  unbroken  stretch  of  wall,    s 
He  seemed  to  count,  with  Ruskin,  u  a  noble  surface  of 
stone  a  fairer  thing  than  most  architectural  features 
which  it  is  caused  to  assume."     And  yet  out  of  this 
simplicity  could  burst  a  sumptuousness  of  design  or 
decoration  all  the  more  captivating  and  overwhelming  10 
for  the  simplicity  out  of  which  it  sprang.     I  have  heard 
one  of  his  own  profession  call  him  "  barbaric."     It  was 
that  which  made  his  work  delightful.     Whoever  came 
in  contact  with  it  felt  that  the  wind  blew  out  of  an  ele- 
mental simplicity,  out  of  the  primitive  life  and  funda-  15 
mental  qualities  of  man.     And  this  great  simplicity, 
the  truthfulness  with  which  he  was  himself,  made  him 
the  real  master  of  all  that  his  art  had  ever  been,  made 
it  possible  for  him,  without  concealment,  to  take  some 
work  of  other  days  and  appropriate  it  into  work  of  his  20 
own,  as  Shakespeare  took  an  Italian  tale  and  turned  it 
into  Shylock  or  Othello. 

These  are  the  moral  qualities  of  his  architecture. 
But  these  qualities  every  one  must  feel  who  stands  in 
front  of  one  of  Richardson's  great  buildings ;  and  the  25 
same  qualities  every  man  felt  who  came  to  know  him. 
That  is  another  note  of  genius.  The  man  and  his  work 
are  absolutely  one.  The  man  is  in  the  work,  and  the 
work  is  in  the  man.     So  Richardson  possessed  in  him- 


-)8  208  8«- 

self   that   solidity  without   stolidity,  that   joyousness 
without  frivolity,  which  his  best  art  expresses. 

Nowhere  does  this  identity  of  Richardson  and  his 
work  seem  more  impressive  than  in  that  unique  house 

5  at  Brookline  which  was  at  once  his  workshop  and  his 
home.  No  one  who  saw  it  when  it  was  filled  with  his 
vitality  will  ever  lose  the  feeling  of  how  it  was  all  vital, 
like  a  thing  that  had  grown. 

His  life  was  like  a  great  picture  full  of  glowing  color. 

10  The  canvas  on  which  it  was  painted  was  immense.  It 
lighted  all  the  room  in  which  it  hung.  It  warmed  the 
chilliest  air.  It  made,  and  it  will  long  make,  life 
broader,  work  easier,  and  simple  strength  and  courage 
dearer  to  many  men. 


-*8  209  fy- 


HONEST    WORK. 


"  Men  said  the  old  smith  was  foolishly  careful,  as  he 
wrought  on  the  great  chain  he  was  making  in  his  dingy 
shop  in  the  heart  of  the  great  city.  But  he  heeded 
not  their  words,  and  only  wrought  with  greater  pains- 
taking. Link  after  link  he  fashioned  and  welded  and  5 
finished,  and  at  last  the  great  chain  was  completed. 

"  Years  passed.    One  night  there  was  a  terrible  storm, 
and  the  ship  was  in  sore  peril  of  being  dashed  upon  the 
rocks.     Anchor  after  anchor  was  dropped,  but  none  of 
them  held.     The  cables  were  broken  like  threads.     At  10 
last  the  mighty  sheet  anchor  was  cast  into  the  sea,  and 
the  old  chain  quickly  uncoiled  and  ran  out  till  it  grew 
taut.     All  watched  to  see  if  it  would  bear  the  awful 
strain.     It  sang  in  the  wild  storm  as  the  vessel's  weight 
surged  upon  it.     It  was  a  moment  of  intense  anxiety.  15 
The  ship  with  its  cargo  of  a  thousand  lives  depended 
upon  this  one  chain.     What  now  if  the  old  smith  had 
wrought  carelessly  even  one  link  of  his  chain !     But  he 
had  put  honesty  and  truth  and  invincible  strength  into 
every  part  of  it ;  and  it  stood  the  test,  holding  the  ship  20 
in  safety  until  the  storm  was  over." 


-*82io  8«- 

SONG    OF    THE    FORGE. 

Clang,  clang  !  the  massive  anvils  ring ; 
Clang,  clang  !  a  hundred  hammers  swing ; 
Like  the  thunder  rattle  of  a  tropic  sky, 
The  mighty  blows  still  multiply ; 

Clang,  clang ! 
Say,  brothers  of  the  dusky  brow, 
What  are  your  strong  arms  forging  now  ? 

Clang,  clang  !     We  forge  the  colter  now,  — 

The  colter  of  the  kindly  plough ; 

Prosper  it,  Heaven,  and  bless  our  toil ! 
May  its  broad  furrow  still  unbind 
To  genial  rains,  to  sun  and  wind, 

The  most  benignant  soil ! 

Clang,  clang  !     Our  colter's  course  shall  be 
On  many  a  sweet  and  sunny  lea, 

By  many  a  streamlet's  silver  tide, 
Amid  the  song  of  morning  birds, 
Amid  the  low  of  sauntering  herds, 
Amid  soft  breezes  which  do  stray 
Through  woodbine  hedges  and  sweet  may, 

Along  the  green  hill's  side. 

When  regal  Autumn's  bounteous  hand 
With  widespread  glory  clothes  the  land,  — 
When  to  the  valleys,  from  the  brow 

Of  each  resplendent  slope,  is  rolled 

A  ruddy  sea  of  living  gold,  — 
We  bless  —  we  bless  the  Plough. 


-•6  2119^ 

Clang,  clang !     Again,  my  mates,  what  glows 
Beneath  the  hammer's  potent  blows  ?  — 
Clink,  clank  !     We  forge  the  giant  chain 
Which  bears  the  gallant  vessel's  strain, 
'Mid  stormy  winds  and  adverse  tides ; 
Secured  by  this,  the  good  ship  braves 
The  rocky  roadstead,  and  the  waves 
Which  thunder  on  her  sides. 

Anxious  no  more,  the  merchant  sees 

The  mist  drive  dark  before  the  breeze, 

The  storm-cloud  on  the  hill ; 

Calmly  he  rests,  though  far  away 
In  boisterous  climes  his  vessel  lay, 

Reliant  on  our  skill. 

Say  on  what  sands  these  links  shall  sleep, 
Fathoms  beneath  the  solemn  deep ; 
By  Afric's  pestilential  shore,  — 
By  many  an  iceberg,  lone  and  hoar,  — 
By  many  a  palmy  Western  isle, 
Basking  in  Spring's  perpetual  smile,  — 
By  stormy  Labrador. 

Say,  shall  they  feel  the  vessel  reel, 
When  to  the  battery's  deadly  peal 
The  crashing  broadside  makes  reply  ? 

Or  else,  as  at  the  glorious  Nile, 

Hold  grappling  ships,  that  strive  the  while 
For  death  or  victory  ? 


-♦6212  8»- 

Hurrah  !    Cling,  clang  !    Once  more,  what  glows, 

Dark  brothers  of  the  forge,  beneath 
The  iron  tempest  of  your  blows, 

The  furnace's  red  breath  ? 
Clang,  clang !     A  burning  torrent,  clear 

And  brilliant,  of  bright  sparks,  is  poured 
Around  and  up  in  the  dusky  air, 

As  our  hammers  forge  the  sword. 

The  sword  !  —  a  name  of  dread  ;  yet  when 
Upon  the  freeman's  thigh  't  is  bound, 

While  for  his  altar  and  his  hearth, 

While  for  the  land  that  gave  him  birth, 
The  war-drums  roll,  the  trumpets  sound, 

How  sacred  is  it  then ! 

Whenever,  for  the  truth  and  right, 
It  flashes  in  the  van  of  fight,  — 
Whether  in  some  wild  mountain  pass, 
As  that  where  fell  Leonidas,  — 
Or  on  some  sterile  plain,  and  stern, 
A  Marston  or  a  Bannockburn,  — 
Or  'mid  fierce  crags  and  bursting  rills, 
The  Switzer's  Alps,  gray  Tyrol's  hills,  — 
Or,  as  when  sank  the  Armada's  pride, 
It  gleams  above  the  stormy  tide,  — 
Still,  still,  whene'er  the  battle-word 
Is  Liberty,  when  men  do  stand 
For  justice  and  their  native  land, 
Then  Heaven  bless  the  Sword ! 


-*6  213  8«- 


ROBERT    BURNS. 

Robert  Burns  was  born   near   the   town  of   Ayr, 
Scotland,  on  the  25th  day  of  January,  1759.     William 
Burns,  "  the  brave  father,  a  silent  hero  and  poet,"  was 
a  humble  farmer,  but  he  had  a  thirst  for  knowledge, 
and  longed  to  give  his  family  an  education.     He  often 
spent  his  noon  hour 
in   pointing   out    the 
wonders  of  nature  and 
imparting  to  his  chil- 
dren what  little  knowl- 
edge he  had  gained. 

Robert  was  sent  to 
school  at  Mt.  Oliphant 
in  his  sixth  year ;  but 
his  father's  poverty 
gave  him  little  oppor- 
tunity for  education, 
and  at  the  age  of  thir- 
teen he  was  assisting 
in  threshing  the  corn, 
and  at  sixteen  was  the  principal  laborer  on  the  farm. 

There  was  an  Old  woman  named  Betty  Davidson 
who  lived  in  the  family.  She  had  a  store  of  tales  and 
songs  of  fairies,  ghosts,  witches,  dragons,  and  enchanted 
towers.  Robert  used  to  listen  to  these  weird  stories,  25 
which  had  a  strong  effect  upon  his  imagination.  They 
fostered  his  love  of  poetry,  so  that  when  his  hands 


-■8  214  8«- 

were  busy  with  the  farm  work,  his  mind  was  gallop- 
ing off  on  deeds  of  chivalry  or  indulging  in  flights  of 
fancy. 

The  Sabbath  was  the  only  time  for  rest  in  this  busy 
5  household,  and  upon  that  day  Robert  Burns  would  be 
found  wandering  alone  beside  the  river  Ayr  and  listen- 
ing to  the  songs  of  the  birds : 

"  The  simple  Bard,  rough  at  the  rustic  plough, 
Learning  his  tuneful  trade  from  ev'ry  bough ; 
10  The  chanting  linnet,  or  the  mellow  thrush, 

Hailing  the  setting  sun,  sweet,  in  the  green  thorn  bush." 

A  storm  always  filled  his  heart  with  reverence.  He 
wrote : 

"  There  is  scarcely  any  earthly  object  gives  me  more 

15  — I  do  not  know  if  I  should  call  it  pleasure,  but  some- 
thing that  exalts  me  —  than  to  walk  in  the  sheltered 
side  of  a  wood  or  high  plantation  in  a  cloudy  winter 
day  and  hear  the  stormy  wind  howling  among  the 
trees  and  raving  over  the  plain.  ...     I  listened  to 

20  the  birds,  and  frequently  turned  out  of  my  path  lest 
I  should  disturb  their  little  songs  or  frighten  them  to 
another  station." 

In  spite  of  his  long  hours  of  hard  work,  Burns  became 
a  great  reader.     He  carried  some  volume,  usually  a 

25  book  of  poems,  in  his  pocket  to  study  during  his  spare 
moments,  and  wrote :  "  I  pored  over  them  driving  my 
cart,  or  walking  to  labor,  song  by  song,  verse  by  verse, 
carefully  noting  the  true,  tender,  sublime,  or  fustian." 


-»6215  8**- 

While  whistling  along  behind  the  plough  or  swing- 
ing the  scythe,  he  was  humming  the  songs  of  his  coun- 
try, or  changing  the  forms  of  the  ballads  which  he 
wrote  at  night  in  his  cheerless  room.  -It  was  while 
ploughing  in  the  field  that  he  composed  5 

"  That  I  for  puir  auld  Scotland's  sake 
Some  useful  plan  or  book  could  make 
Or  sing  a  song  at  least." 

Burns  had  a  tender  heart  and  ready  sympathy.  One 
day  his  plough  turned  up  a  field  mouse  in  her  nest.  10 
The  frightened  little  creature  started  to  run,  and  one 
of  the  boys  was  about  to  kill  her  when  Burns  interfered. 
The  thought  that  he  had  broken  up  this  home  where 
Mousie  thought  herself  safe  from  the  cold  of  winter 
filled  him  with  regret,  and  he  wrote  his*"  celebrated  15 
poem,  "To  a  Mouse,"  on  this  occasion.  Another 
poem,  "  To  a  Mountain  Daisy,"  was  composed  while  he 
was  ploughing  a  field  where  he  had  uprooted  a  daisy 
which  was  just  springing  up  through  the  soil. 

His  first  poem  of  note,  "Behind  Yon  Hills  where  20 
Lugar  Flows,"  was  written  when  Burns  was  twenty- 
two  years  old.  During  that  year  he  went  to  Irvine  to 
learn  the  flax  dresser's  trade.  "It  was,"  he  writes, 
"  an  unlucky  affair.  As  we  were  giving  a  welcome 
to  the  New  Year,  the  shop  took  fire  and  burned  to  25 
ashes,  and  I  was  left,  like  a  true  poet,  without  a  six- 
pence." His  father's  failing  health  and  misfortunes 
made  it  necessary  for  him  to  return  to  the  farm. 


^9216  8«- 

Burns  began  to  be  known  in  the  neighborhood 
as  a  writer  of  verses,  but  some  of  his  poems  were 
received  with  disapproval,  and  other  circumstances 
increased  the  feeling  against  him,  so  that  he  decided 
5  to  leave  Scotland  and  sail  for  Jamaica.  To  raise 
the  needful  funds,  he  had  six  hundred  copies  of  a 
volume  of  his  poems  printed  at  Kilmarnock.  The 
little  book  sold  rapidly,  and  the  poet  had  twenty 
guineas   left   after   paying   all   expenses.     Burns   was 

10  now  ready  to  leave  Scotland,  but  a  letter  from  a 
friend  changed  the  current  of  his  life  and  kept  him 
in  his  native  land. 

The  poet  was  received  with  the  highest  honor  at 
Edinburgh,  where  he  was  invited  into  the  society  of  the 

15  men  of  letters,  rank,  and  fashion.  Surely  his  dream 
had  come  true.  He  had  reached  the  heart  of  "  Bonnie 
Scotland " !  Burns  has  taken  the  humblest  pictures 
of  Scottish  life  and  breathed  a  deeper  meaning  into 
them   than   has    ever    been   dreamed   of   by   poet   or 

20  artist.  He  has  compared  himself  to  an  iEolian  harp 
strung  to  every  wind  of  Heaven,  and  there  seems 
to  be  nothing  from  the  "  wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped 
flower "  to  Scotland,  his  dear  native  land,  that  he 
has  not  clothed  in  verse.     A   second   edition   of  his 

25  poems  was  published  during  the  following  year,  and 
the  proceeds  of  their  sale  brought  the  author  five 
hundred  pounds.  Soon  afterwards  Burns  married  Jean 
Armour,  to  whom  he  had  long  been  attached,  and 
settled  on  a  farm  at  Ellisland,  not  far  from  Dumfries. 


-»S  217  fr- 

When  he  took  possession  of  the  farm  Burns  asked  lit- 
tle Betty,  the  servant,  to  take  the  family  Bible  and  a 
bowl  of  salt,  and,  placing  the  one  on  the  other,  to  walk 
into  the  house.  This  was  one  of  the  old  customs,  and 
the  poet  delighted  in  such  observances.  He  and  his 
wife  followed  Betty  and  began  life  on  this  farm. 

While  here  he  was  appointed  Excise  officer  for  the 
district,  and  spent  much  of  his  time  riding  about  the 


BIRTHPLACE     OF     BURNS. 


hills  and  vales  of  Nithsdale  searching  for  smugglers, 
and  murmuring  his  wayward  fancies  as  he  rode  along.  10 
He  often  had  a  half  dozen  pieces  in  his  mind,  and 
thought  of  one  or  the  other  as  suited  his  mood.  At 
this  time  Burns  wrote  about  a  hundred  Scottish  songs, 
for  which  he  received  a  shawl  for  his  wife,  a  picture 
representing  "  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,"  and  about  15 
five  pounds. 

In  a  short  time  he  was  obliged  to  leave  the  pleasant 
farm  and  remove  to  a  small  house  at  Dumfries,  where 


-*6  218  Si- 
he  hoped  to  support  his  family  on  his  small  increase  of 
salary  as  Excise  man  of  that  district ;  but  certain  polit- 
ical views  made  him  unpopular.      He  became  intem- 

5  perate,  and  his  health  failed.  He  decided  to  try  sea 
bathing  and  at  first  imagined  that  the  sea  had  benefited 
him,  but  on  his  return  home  on  the  18th  of  July,  1796, 
he  became  very  ill  and  died  within  a  few  days. 

The  inhabitants  of  Dumfries  started  a  subscription 

10  for  the  support  of  the  widow  and  children  of  their 
beloved  poet,  which  was  increased  by  contributions 
from  all  over  Scotland,  and  from  England  also.  In 
the  old  churchyard  at  Dumfries  is  the  mausoleum 
built   over   the   poet's   tomb,    and   a   monument   was 

15  erected  to  his  memory  beside  the  banks  of  "  Bonnie 
Doon  " ;  but  he  still  lives  in  the  hearts  and  memories 
of  the  Scottish  people,  who  sing  his  songs  and  rever- 
ence the  very  walks  where  he  loved  to  muse. 


PLEASURES. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 

You  seize  the  flow'r,  its  bloom  is  shed ; 

Or  like  the  snow  falls  in  the  river, 

A  moment  white  —  then  melts  for  ever ; 

Or  like  the  borealis  race, 

That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place ; 


-*8219  B»- 


Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm. 

From  «  Tarn  0'  Shanter." 


FLOW    GENTLY,  SWEET    AFTON. 
ROBERT  BURNS. 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes, 
Flow  gently,  I  '11  sing  thee  a  song  in  thy  praise ; 
My  Mary 's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 

Thou  stock-dove  whose  echo  resounds  thro'  the  glen. 
Ye  wild  whistling  blackbirds  in  yon  thorny  den, 
Thou  green-crested  lapwing,  thy  screaming  forbear, 
I  charge  you  disturb  not  my  slumbering  fair. 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighboring  hills, 
Far  mark'd  with  the  courses  of  clear,  winding  rills ; 
There  daily  I  wander  as  noon  rises  high, 
My  flocks  and  my  Mary's  sweet  cot  in  my  eye. 

How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  valleys  below, 
Where  wild  in  the  woodlands  the  primroses  blow ; 
There  oft,  as  mild  ev'ning  weeps  over  the  lea, 
The  sweet-scented  birk  shades  my  Mary  and  me. 

Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  lovely  it  glides, 
And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary  resides ; 


-»6  220  Bi- 
HOW  wanton  thy  waters  her  snowy  feet  lave, 
As  gathering  sweet  flow'rets  she  stems  thy  clear  wave. 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my  lays ; 
My  Mary 's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 


BONNIE   DOON. 
ROBERT  BURNS. 


Ye  flowery  banks  o'  bonnie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  blume  sae  fair  ? 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 

And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care  ? 

Thou  '11  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird, 

That  sings  upon  the  bough ; 
Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days, 

When  my  fause '  luve  was  true. 

Thou  '11  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird, 

That  sings  beside  thy  mate  ; 
For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang, 

And  wist  na  o'  my  fate. 

1  fause  =  false. 


-»6  221  &- 

Aft  hae  I  rov'd  by  bonnie  Doon 
To  see  the  wood-bine  twine, 

And  ilka 2  bird  sang  o'  its  luve, 
And  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose 
Frae  aff  its  thorny  tree ; 

And  my  f ause  luver  staw 3  my  rose 
But  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 

2  ilka  =  every.        3  staw  —  stole. 


0  Scotia  !  my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is  sent ! 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet  content ! 

And,  oh !  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent 
From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile ! 

Then,  howe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 
A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while, 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much-lov'd  isle. 

From  "  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night." 


-iQ  222  Qf- 


HISTORY    OF    OUR    FLAG. 

The  history  of  our  glorious  old  flag  is  of  exceeding 
interest,  and  brings  back  to  us  a  throng  of  sacred  and 
thrilling  associations.  The  banner  of  St.  Andrew  was 
blue,  charged  with  a  white  saltire  or  cross,  in  the  form 

5  of  the  letter  X,  and  was  used  in  Scotland  as  early  as 
the  eleventh  century.  The  banner  of  St.  George  was 
white,  charged  with  the  red  cross,  and  was  used  in 
England  as  early  as  the  first  part  of  the  fourteenth 
century.     By  a  royal   proclamation,  dated   April  12, 

10  1700,  these  two  crosses  were  joined  together  upon  the 
same  banner,  forming  the  ancient  national  flag  of 
England. 

It  was  not  until  Ireland,  in  1801,  was  made  a  part  of 
Great  Britain,  that  the  present  national  flag  of  England, 

15  so  well  known  as  the  "Union  Jack,"  was  completed. 
But  it  was  the  ancient  flag  of  England  that  constituted 


-*8  223  8»- 

the  basis  of  our  American  banner.  Various  other  flags 
had  indeed  been  raised  at  sundry  times  by  our  colonial 
ancestors.  But  they  were  not  particularly  associated 
with,  or,  at  least,  were  not  incorporated  into  and  made 
a  part  of,  the  destined  "Stars  and  Stripes."  It  was  5 
after  Washington  had  taken  command  of  the  fresh 
army  of  the  Revolution,  at  Cambridge,  that,  January 
2,  1776,  he  unfolded  before  them  the  new  flag  of 
thirteen  stripes  of  alternate  red  and  white,  having 
upon  one  of  its  corners  the  red  and  white  crosses  of  10 
St.  George  and  St.  Andrew,  on  a  field  of  blue.  And 
this  was  the  standard  which  was  borne  into  the  city 
of  Boston  when  it  was  evacuated  by  the  British  troops 
and  was  entered  by  the  American  army. 

Uniting,  as  it  did,  the  flags  of  England  and  America,  15 
it  showed  that  the  colonists  were  not  yet  prepared  to 
sever  the  tie  that  bound  them  to  the  mother  country. 
By  that  union  of  flags  they  claimed  to  be  a  vital  and 
substantial  part  of  the  empire  of  Great  Britain,  and 
demanded  the  rights  and  privileges  which  such  a  rela-  20 
tion  implied.  Yet  it  was  by  these  thirteen  stripes 
that  they  made  known  the  union  also  of  the  thirteen 
colonies,  the  stripes  of  white  declaring  the  purity  and 
innocence  of  their  cause,  and  the  stripes  of  red  giving 
forth  defiance  to  cruelty  and  opposition.  25 

On  the  14th  day  of  June,  1777,  it  was  resolved  by 
Congress,  "  That  the  flag  of  the  thirteen  United  States 
be  thirteen  stripes,  alternate  red  and  white,  and  that 
the  Union  be  thirteen  white  stars  in  the  blue  field/' 


hQ  224  Qf 

This  resolution  was  made  public  September  3,  1777, 
and  the  flag  that  was  first  made  and  used  in  pursuance 
of  it  was  that  which  led  the  Americans  to  victory  at 
Saratoga.     Here  the  thirteen  stars  were  arranged  in  a 

5  circle,  as  we  sometimes  see  them  now,  in  order  better 
to  express  the  idea  of  the  union  of  the  states. 

In  1794,  there  having  been  two  more  new  states 
added  to  the  Union,  it  was  voted  that  the  alternate 
stripes,  as   well   as   the   circling   stars,  be   fifteen   in 

10  number,  and  the  flag,  as  thus  altered  and  enlarged, 
was  the  one  which  was  borne  through  all  the  contests 
of  the  War  of  1812.  But  it  was  thought  that  the  flag 
would  at  length  become  too  large  if  a  new  stripe 
should  be  added  with  every  freshly   admitted   state. 

15  It  was  therefore  enacted,  in  1818,  that  a  permanent 
return  should  be  made  to  the  original  number  of 
thirteen  stripes,  and  that  the  number  of  stars  should 
henceforth  correspond  to  the  growing  number  of 
states. 

20  Thus  the  flag  would  symbolize  the  Union  as  it  might 
be  at  any  given  period  of  its  history,  and  also  as  it  was 
at  the  very  hour  of  its  birth.  It  was  at  the  same  time 
suggested  that  these  stars,  instead  of  being  arranged  in 
a  circle,  be  formed  into  a  single  star  —  a  suggestion 

25  which  we  occasionally  see  adopted.  In  fine,  no  particu- 
lar order  seems  now  to  be  observed  with  respect  to  the 
arrangement  of  the  constellation.  It  is  enough  if  only 
the  whole  number  be  there  upon  that  azure  field  —  the 
blue  to  be  emblematical  of  perseverance,  vigilance,  and 


-•*§   225   {J**- 

justice,  each  star  to  signify  the  glory  of  the  state  it 
may  represent,  and  the  whole  to  be  eloquent  forever 
of  a  Union  that  must  be  "  one  and  inseparable." 

What  precious  associations  cluster  around  our  flag! 
Not  alone  have  our  fathers  set  up  this  banner  in  the  5 
name  of  God  over  the  well-won  battlefields  of  the 
Revolution,  and  over  the  cities  and  towns  which  they 
rescued  from  despotic  rule ;  but  think  where  also  their 
descendants  have  carried  it,  and  raised  it  in  conquest  or 
protection !  Through  what  clouds  of  dust  and  smoke  10 
has  it  passed  —  what  storms  of  shot  and  shell  —  what 
scenes  of  fire  and  blood !  Not  only  at  Saratoga,  at 
Monmouth,  and  at  Yorktown,  but  at  Lundy's  Lane 
and  New  Orleans,  at  Buena  Vista  and  Chapultepec. 
It  is  the  same  glorious  old  flag  which,  inscribed  with  15 
the  dying  words  of  Lawrence,  —  "Don't  give  up  the 
ship!"  —  was  hoisted  on  Lake  Erie  by  Commodore 
Perry  just  on  the  eve  of  his  great  naval  victory  —  the 
same  old  flag  which  our  great  chieftain  bore  in  triumph 
to  the  proud  city  of  the  Aztecs  and  planted  upon  the  20 
heights  of  her  national  palace.  Brave  hands  raised  it 
above  the  eternal  regions  of  ice  in  the  arctic  seas,  and 
have  set  it  up  on  the  summits  of  the  lofty  mountains 
in  the  distant  west. 

Where  has  it  not  gone,  the  pride  of  its  friends  and  25 
the  terror  of  its  foes  ?     What  countries  and  what  seas 
has  it  not  visited  ?     Where  has  not  the  American  citi- 
zen been  able  to  stand  beneath  its  guardian  folds  and 
defy  the  world?     With  what  joy  and  exultation  sea- 


-*8  226  9<- 

men  and  tourists  have  gazed  upon  its  stars  and  stripes, 
read  in  it  the  history  of  their  nation's  glory,  received 
from  it  the  full  sense  of  security,  and  drawn  from  it 
the  inspirations  of  patriotism !     By  it  how  many  have 

5  sworn  fealty  to  their  country ! 

What  bursts  of  magnificent  eloquence  it  has  called 
forth  from  Webster  and  from  Everett!  What  lyric 
strains  of  poetry  from  Drake  and  Holmes!  How 
many  heroes  its  folds  have  covered  in  death!     How 

10  many  have  lived  for  it,  and  how  many  have  died  for 
it!  How  many,  living  and  dying,  have  said,  in  their 
enthusiastic  devotion  to  its  honor,  like  that  young 
wounded  sufferer  in  the  streets  of  Baltimore,  "  Oh,  the 
flag !  the  Stars  and  Stripes  !  "     And  wherever  that  flag 

15  has  gone  it  has  been  a  herald  of  a  better  day;  it  has 
been  the  pledge  of  freedom,  of  justice,  of  order,  of 
civilization,  and  of  Christianity.  Tyrants  only  have 
hated  it,  and  the  enemies  of  mankind  alone  have 
trampled  it  to  the  earth.    All  who  sigh  for  the  triumph 

20  of  truth  and  righteousness  love  and  salute  it. 


-^8  227  Qf 

THE    AMERICAN    FLAG. 

JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE. 

Joseph  Kodman  Drake  was  born  in  New  York  City,  in  1795. 
He  wrote  a  number  of  poems  which  gave  promise  of  his  gaining 
high  rank  as  a  poet ;  but  he  died  at  the  age  of  twenty-four. 

When  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height 
Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 

She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 
And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there; 

She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 

The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 

And  striped  its  pure,  celestial  white 

With  streakings  of  the  morning  light ; 

Then  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun 

She  called  her  eagle-bearer  down, 

And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 

The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

Flag  of  the  brave,  thy  folds  shall  fly, 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high  ! 
When  speaks  the  signal  trumpet  tone, 
And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on 
(Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet, 
Has  dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet) 
Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn, 
And  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 


-*S  228  e<- 

Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance* 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle-shroud, 
And  gory  sabers  rise  and  fall 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall, 
Then  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow, 

And  cowering  foes  shall  sink  beneath 
Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 

That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas,  on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave  ; 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 
Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  Heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home, 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given, 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe,  but  falls  before  us, 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us  ? 


-»6  229  8«~ 

DREAM-CHILDREN:    A   REVERIE. 
CHARLES  LAMB. 

Charles  Lamb  was  born  in  London  on  the  10th  of  February, 
1775. 

He  was  sent  to  school  at  Christ's  Hospital  when  he  was  eight 
years  old  and  remained  there  for  seven  years.     Charles  was  a 
delicate,    sensitive  boy,   and  there 
was  little  in  the  dull,  hard  life  of 
this  school  to  make  him  happy. 

He  was  fortunate  in  having  Cole- 
ridge for  a  companion,  with  whom 
he  formed  a  lifelong  friendship. 

After  leaving  school  Lamb  held  a 
clerkship  for  a  short  time,  and  then 
entered  an  accountant's  office,  where 
he  remained  for  over  thirty  years. 

A  terrible  sorrow  shadowed  his 
life.  His  sister  Mary  became  vio- 
lently insane  and  was  placed  in  an 

asylum.     After  the  recovery  of  her  health  her  brother  obtained 
her  release  by  promising  to  watch  over  and  care  for  her. 

When  Lamb  was  twenty-one  years  old,  Coleridge  included  four  20 
of  his  sonnets  in  a  collection  called  "  Poems  on  Various  Subjects." 
These  were  the  first  of  Lamb's  writings  to  appear  in  print.  He 
afterwards  published  a  number  of  poems  and  plays,  and,  in  com- 
pany with  his  sister,  wrote  the  famous  "Tales"  founded  on  the 
Plays  of  Shakespeare.  25 

When  Lamb  was  about  forty-five  years  old,  he  wrote  a  number 
of  essays,  signing  himself  "  Elia,"  and  it  is  upon  these  that  his 
literary  fame  rests.  They  are  delicate  in  fancy  and  sparkle  with 
wit  and  humor.     He  died  on  the  27th  of  December,  1834. 

Children  love  to  listen  to  stories  about  their  elders  30 
when  they  were  children ;  to  stretch  their  imagination 


-»8  230  9«- 

to  the  conception  of  a  traditionary  great-uncle,  or  a 
gran  dame,  whom  they  never  saw.  It  was  in  this  spirit 
that  my  little  ones  crept  about  me  the  other  evening 
to  hear  about  their  great-grandmother  Field,  who  lived 

5  in  a  great  house  in  Norfolk  (a  hundred  times  bigger 
than  that  in  which  they  and  papa  lived),  which  had 
been  the  scene  —  so  at  least  it  was  generally  believed 
in  that  part  of  the  country  —  of  the  tragic  incidents 
which  they  had  lately  become  familiar  with  from  the 

10  ballad  of  the  "  Children  in  the  Wood."  Certain  it  is 
that  the  whole  story  of  the  children  and  their  cruel 
uncle  was  to  be  seen  fairly  carved  out  in  wood  upon 
the  chimney-piece  of  the  great  hall,  the  whole  story 
down  to  the  Robin  Redbreast ;  till  a  foolish  rich  per- 

15  son  pulled  it  down  to  set  up  a  marble  one  of  modern 
invention  in  its  stead,  with  no  story  upon  it. 

Here  Alice  put  on  one  of  her  dear  mother's  looks,  too 
tender  to  be  called  upbraiding.  Then  I  went  on  to 
say  how  good  their  great-grandmother  Field  was ;  how 

20  beloved  and  respected  by  everybody,  though  she  was 
not  indeed  the  mistress  of  this  great  house,  but  had 
only  the  charge  of  it  (and  yet  in  some  respects  she 
might  be  said  to  be  the  mistress  of  it  too)  committed 
to  her  by  the  owner,  who  preferred  living  in  a  newer 

25  and  more  fashionable  mansion  which  he  had  purchased 
somewhere  in  the  adjoining  county ;  but  still  she  lived 
in  it  in  a  manner  as  if  it  had  been  her  own,  and  kept 
up  the  dignity  of  the  great  house  in  a  sort  while  she 
lived,  which  afterwards  came  to  decay,  and  was  nearly 


-*8  231   8«- 

pulled  down,  and  all  its  old  ornaments  stripped  and 
carried  away  to  the  owner's  other  house,  where  they 
were  set  up,  and  looked  as  awkward  as  if  some  one 
were  to  carry  away  the  old  tombs  they  had  seen  lately 
at  the  Abbey,  and  stick  them  up  in  Lady  C.'s  tawdry  5 
gilt  drawing-room.  Here  John  smiled,  as  much  as  to 
say,  "That  would  be  foolish  indeed.,, 

And  then  I  told  how,  when  she  came  to  die,  her 
funeral  was  attended  by  a  concourse  of  all  the  poor, 
and  .some  of  the  gentry  too,  of  the  neighborhood  for  10 
many  miles  round,  to  show  their  respect  for  her  mem- 
ory, because  she  had  been  such  a  good  woman ;  so  good 
indeed  that  she  knew  all  the  Psalter  by  heart,  ay,  and 
a  great  part  of  the  Testament  besides.  Here  little 
Alice  spread  her  hands.  Then  I  told  her  what  a  tall,  15 
upright,  graceful  person  their  great-grandmother  Field 
once  was ;  and  how  in  her  youth  she  was  esteemed  the 
best  dancer,  —  here  Alice's  little  right  foot  played  an 
involuntary  movement,  till,  upon  my  looking  grave,  it 
desisted,  —  the  best  dancer  in  the  country.  20 

Then  I  told  how  good  she  was  to  all  her  grandchil- 
dren, having  us  to  the  great  house  in  the  holidays,  where 
I  in  particular  used  to  spend  many  hours  by  myself  in 
gazing  upon  the  old  busts  of  the  twelve  Caesars  that  had 
been  emperors  of  Rome,  till  the  old  marble  heads  would  25 
seem  to  live  again  or  I  to  be  turned  into  marble  with 
them.  How  I  never  could  be  tired  with  roaming  about 
that  huge  mansion  with  its  vast  empty  rooms,  with 
their  wornout  hangings,  fluttering  tapestry,  and  carved 


oaken  panels  with  the  gilding  almost  rubbed  out, — 
sometimes  in  the  spacious,  old-fashioned  gardens,  which 
I  had  almost  to  myself,  unless  when  now  and  then  a 
solitary  gardening  man  would  cross  me. 

5  How  the  nectarines  and  peaches  hung  upon  the 
walls  without  my  ever  offering  to  pluck  them,  because 
they  were  forbidden  fruit,  unless  now  and  then,  —  and 
because  I  had  more  pleasure  in  strolling  about  among 
the  old  melancholy-looking  yew  trees,  or  the  firs,  and 

10  picking  up  the  red  berries,  and  the  fir  apples,  which 
were  good  for  nothing  but  to  look  at,  —  or  in  lying 
about  upon  the  fresh  grass  with  all  the  fine  garden 
smells  around  me,  —  or  basking  in  the  orangery,  till  I 
could  almost  fancy  myself  ripening  too  along  with  the 

15  oranges  and  the  limes  in  that  grateful  warmth,  —  or  in 
watching  the  dace  that  darted  to  and  fro  in  the  fish 
pond  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  with  here  and  there 
a  great  sulky  pike  hanging  midway  down  the  water 
in  silent  state,  as  if  it  mocked  at  their  impertinent 

20  friskings.  I  had  more  pleasure  in  these  busy-idle  diver- 
sions than  in  all  the  sweet  flavors  of  peaches,  nectarines, 
oranges,  and  such-like  common  baits  of  children. 

Here  John  slyly  deposited  back  upon  the  plate  a 
bunch  of  grapes,  which,  not  unobserved  by  Alice,  he 

25  had  meditated  dividing  with  her,  and  both  seemed  will- 
ing to  relinquish  them  for  the  present  as  irrelevant. 
Then,  in  somewhat  a  more  heightened  tone,  I  told  how, 
though  their  great-grandmother  Field  loved  all  her 
grandchildren,  yet  in  an  especial  manner  she  might  be 


-»8  233  9«- 

said  to  love  their  uncle,  John  L ,  because  he  was  so 

handsome  and  spirited  a  youth,  and  a  king  to  the  rest 
of  us.     Instead  of  moping  about  in  solitary  corners, 
like  some  of  us,  he  would  mount  the  most  mettlesome 
horse  he  could  get,  when  but  an  imp  no  bigger  than    5 
themselves,  and  make  it  carry  him  half  over  the  county 
in  a  morning,  and  join  the  hunters  when  there  were 
any  out,  —  and  yet  he  loved  the  old  great  house  and 
gardens  too,  but  had  too  much  spirit  to  be  always  pent 
up  within  their  boundaries,  —  and  how  their  uncle  grew  10 
up  to  man's  estate  as  brave  as  he  was  handsome,  to 
the  admiration  of  everybody,  but  of  their  great-grand- 
mother Field  most  especially;   and   how  he  used   to 
carry  me  upon  his  back  when   Fwas  a  lame-footed 
boy  —  for  he  was  a  good  bit  older  than  me  —  many  js 
a  mile  when  I  could  not  walk  for  pain. 

In  after  life  he  became  lame-footed  too,  and  I  did  not 
always  (I  fear)  make  allowances  enough  for  him  when 
he  was  impatient  and  in  pain,  nor  remember  sufficiently 
how  considerate  he  had  been  to  me  when  I  was  lame-  20 
footed ;  and  how  when  he  died,  though  he  had  not  yet 
been  dead  an  hour,  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  died  a  great 
while  ago,  such  a  distance  there  is  betwixt  life  and 
death ;  and  how  I  bore  his  death,  as  I  thought  pretty 
well  at  first,  but  afterwards  it  haunted  and  haunted  25 
me ;  and  though  I  did  not  cry  or  take  it  to  heart  as 
some  do,  and  as  I  think  he  would  have  done  if  I  had 
died,  yet  I  missed  him  all  day  long,  and  knew  not  till 
then  how  much  I  had  loved  him.     I  missed  his  kind- 


-»8  234  8«- 

ness,  and  I  missed  his  crossness,  and  wished  him  to  be 
alive  again. 

Here  the  children  fell  a-crying  and  asked  if  their 
little  mourning  which  they  had  on  was  not  for  Uncle 

5  John,  and  they  looked  up,  and  prayed  me  not  to  go 
on  about  their  uncle,  but  to  tell  them  some  stories 
about  their  pretty  dead  mother. 

Then  I  told  how  for  seven  long  years,  in  hope  some- 
times,  sometimes   in   despair,   yet   persisting  ever,   I 

10  courted  the  fair  Alice  W n ;  and,  as  much  as  chil- 
dren could  understand,  I  explained  to  them  what  coy- 
ness, and  difficulty,  and  denial  meant  in  maidens, — 
when  suddenly,  turning  to  Alice,  the  soul  of  the  first 
Alice  looked  out  at  her  eyes  with  such  a  reality  of 

15  representment  that  I  became  in  doubt  which  of  them 
stood  there  before  me,  or  whose  that  bright  hair  was. 
While  I  stood  gazing,  both  the  children  gradually  grew 
fainter  to  my  view,  receding,  and  still  receding,  till 
nothing  at  last  but  two  mournful  features  were  seen  in 

20  the  uttermost  distance,  which,  without  speech,  strangely 
impressed  upon  me  the  effects  of  speech:  "We  are 
not  of  Alice,  nor  of  thee,  nor  are  we  children  at  all. 
The  children  of  Alice  call  Bartrum  father.  We  are 
nothing  ;    less  than  nothing,  and  dreams  " ;  —  and,  im- 

25  mediately  awaking,  I  found  myself  quietly  seated  in 
my  bachelor  armchair,  where  I  had  fallen  asleep. 


-»6  235  9*- 

THE    SHANDON    BELLS. 

FATHER  PROUT. 

Francis  Sylvester  Mah'ony,  better  known  by  his  pen-name 
of  Father  Prout,  was  born  in  Ireland  in  1804,  and  died  in  Paris 
in  1866. 

He  was  a  contributor  of  brilliant,  witty,  and  fantastic  produc- 
tioDs  to  the  leading  periodicals  of  his  time.     His  poem,  "The  5 
Shandon  Bells,"  is  the  best  known  of  his  productions. 

With  deep  affection 

And  recollection, 
I  often  think  of  those  Shandon  bells, 

Whose  sounds  so  wild  would, 

In  days  of  childhood, 
Fling  round  my  cradle  their  magic  spells. 

On  this  I  ponder 

Where'er  I  wander, 
And  thus  grow  fonder,  sweet  Cork,  of  thee ; 

With  thy  bells  of  Shandon, 

That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 

I  've  heard  bells  chiming 

Full  many  a  clime  in, 
Tolling  sublime  in  cathedral  shrine, 

While  at  a  glib  rate 

Brass  tongues  would  vibrate  ; 
But  all  their  music  spoke  naught  like  thine : 


•*6  236  &~ 

For  memory  dwelling 

On  each  proud  swelling 
Of  the  belfry  knelling  its  bold  notes  free, 

Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 

Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 

I  Ve  heard  bells  tolling 

Old  Adrian's  Mole  in, 
Their  thunder  rolling  from  the  Vatican, 

And  cymbals  glorious 

Swinging  uproarious 
In  the  gorgeous  turrets  of  Notre  Dame ; 

But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter 

Than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o'er  the  Tiber,  pealing  solemnly ;  — 

0,  the  bells  of  Shandon 

Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee ! 

Such  empty  phantom 

I  freely  grant  them  ; 
But  there  is  an  anthem  more  dear  to  rne, 

'T  is  the  bells  of  Shandon, 

That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 


-i6  237  &- 

DON    QUIXOTE    AND    THE    LIONS. 

MIGUEL  DE  CERVANTES. 

Miguel  de  Cervantes  was  born  in  the  province  of  New 
Castile,  Spain,  in  1547.  He  was  descended  from  a  noble  family, 
his  grandfather  having  been  a  knight  of  some  distinction. 

Cervantes  received  a  good  education  and  soon  showed  a  talent 
for  writing.  5 

At  the  age  of  twenty-one  he  became  a  soldier  and  won  glory, 
during  a  sea  battle,  by  rising  from  a  sick-bed  and  taking  com- 
mand of  some  soldiers  at  the  post  of  greatest  danger,  declaring 
his  resolve  to  die  fighting  for  his  God  and  his  king,  rather  than 
to  remain  under  shelter  and  take  care  of  his  health.  10 

Some  years  later,  Cervantes  was  captured  by  the  Algerians 
and  made  a  slave;  but  after  five  years  of  captivity,  which  he 
bore  with  wonderful  heroism,  he  was  ransomed  and  returned  to 
Spain,  where  he  rejoined  his  regiment  and  distinguished  him- 
self. 15 

He  left  the  army  when  he  was  about  thirty-five  years  of  age, 
and  engaged  in  writing  poems  and  plays.  Many  years  of  hard- 
ship and  poverty  followed. 

His  great  work  "  Don  Quixote  "  was  published  in  1604,  when 
he  was  fifty-seven  years  old.  It  was  intended  to  ridicule  the  20 
extravagant  stories  of  chivalry  which  were  popular  at  that  time. 
This  book  has  been  translated  into  many  languages,  and  although 
nearly  three  hundred  years  have  passed  since  it  was  written,  it 
still  retains  its  popularity. 

Cervantes  died  at  Madrid  in  1616,  the  same  year  in  which  25 
Shakespeare  died  in  England. 

The  history  relates  that  when  Don  Quixote  called 
out  to  Sancho  Panza,  his  servant,  he  was  buying  some 
curds  of  the  shepherds,  and  being  summoned  in  such 
haste  to  his  master  he  knew  not  what  to  do  with  them ;  3q 


40  238  &- 

so  to  prevent  their  being  wasted  he  poured  them  into 
the  helmet  and  hurried  away  to  receive  the  commands 
of  his  master. 

"Sancho,"  said  the   knight,  "give  me  my  helmet; 
5  for  either  I  know  little  of  adventures,  or  that  which  I 
descry  yonder  is  one  that  will  oblige  me  to  have  recourse 
to  arms.', 

He  of  the  green  riding  coat,  hearing  this,  looked  on 

all  sides  and   could   see  nothing   but  a  cart  coming 

io  towards  them  with  two  or  three  small  flags,  by  which 

he  thought  it  probable  that  it  was  conveying  some  of 

the  King's  money. 

He  mentioned  his  conjecture  to  Don  Quixote,  but 

his  only  reply  was:  "Forewarned,  forearmed;   to  be 

15  prepared  is  half  the  victory.     I  know  by  experience 

that  I  have  enemies  both  visible  and  invisible,  and 

I   know   not  when,  nor  from  what   quarter,  nor   at 

what  time,  nor  in  what  shape  they  may  attack  me." 

He  then  took  his  helmet  from  Sancho,  and  without 

20  perceiving  the  contents,  clapped  it  hastily  upon  his  head. 

The  curds  being  squeezed  and  pressed,  the  whey  began 

to  run  down  the  face  and  beard  of  the  knight  to  his 

great  consternation. 

"  What  can  this  mean,  Sancho?  "  said  he  ;  u  methinks 

25  my  skull  is  softening,  or  my  brains  melting,  or  I  sweat 

from  head  to  foot !     If  so,  it  is  certainly  not  through 

fear,  though  I  verily  believe  that  this  will  prove  a 

terrible  adventure." 

Sancho  said  nothing  but  gave  him  a  cloth.     Don 


•*8  239  Qh- 

Quixote  took  off  his  helmet  to  see  what  was  so  cool 
to  his  head.  "By  my  soul!"  he  exclaimed,  "these 
are  curds  which  thou  hast  put  here,  thou  unmannerly 
squire ! " 

Sancho  replied  with  much  coolness  and  cunning :  "  If   5 
they  are  curds,  sir,  I  should  sooner  have  put  them  into 
my  stomach  than  into  your  Worship's  helmet.' ' 

"  Well,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "there  may  be  something 
in  that " ;  and  after  having  wiped  his  head,  face,  beard, 
and  helmet,  again  put  it  on,  and  fixing  himself  firm  in  ig 
his  stirrups,  adjusting  his  sword,  and  grasping  his  lance 
he  exclaimed :  "  Now,  come  what  may,  I  am  prepared 
to  encounter  the  enemy  !  " 

They  were  soon  overtaken  by  the  cart  with  the  flags, 
which  was  attended  only  by  the  driver,  who  rode  upon  i& 
one  of  the  mules,  and  a  man  sitting  upon  the  cart. 

Don  Quixote  planted  himself  just  before  them  and 
said :  "  Whither  go  ye,  brethren  ?  What  carriage  is  this  ? 
What  does  it  contain,  and  what  are  those  banners  ?  " 

"The  cart  is  mine,"  answered  the  carter,  "and  in  20 
it  are  two  fierce  lions,  which  the  general  of  Oran  is 
sending  to  court  as  a  present  to  his  Majesty ;  the  flags 
belong  to  our  liege,  the  King,  to  show  that  what  is  in 
the  cart  belongs  to  him." 

"  And  are  the  lions  large  ?  "  demanded  Don  Quixote.  25 

"  Larger  never  came  from  Africa  to  Spain,"  said  the 
man  on  the  front  of  the  cart ;  "  I  am  their  keeper,  and 
in  my  time  have  had  charge  of  many  lions,  but  never 
of  any  so  large  as  these.     Not  having  eaten  to-day, 


-»6  240  8«- 

they  are  now  hungry ;  therefore,  sir,  stand  aside,  for 
we  must  make  haste  to  the  place  where  they  are  to 
be  fed." 

"What!"  said  Don  Quixote  with  a  scornful  smile, 
5  "lion  whelps  against  me!  Against  me,  your  puny 
monsters !  and  at  this  time  of  day !  By  yon  blessed 
sun!  those  that  sent  them  hither  shall  see  whether  I 
am  a  man  to  be  scared  by  lions.  Alight,  honest  friend, 
and  since  you  are  their  keeper,  open  the  cages  and  turn 

10  out  your  savages  of  the  desert ;  for  in  the  midst  of  this 
field  I  will  make  them  know  who  Don  Quixote  is,  in 
spite  of  the  enchanters  that  sent  them  hither  to  me. 
I  vow,  Don  Rascal,  if  thou  dost  not  instantly  open  the 
cages,  with  this  lance  I  will  pin  thee  to  the  cart." 

15  Whilst  the  keeper  was  unbarring  the  first  grate, 
Don  Quixote  deliberated  whether  it  would  be  better 
to  engage  on  horseback  or  not;  and  finally  deter- 
mined it  should  be  on  foot,  as  Roxinante,  his  steed, 
might  be  terrified  at  sight  of  the  lions.     He  therefore 

20  leaped  from  his  horse,  flung  aside  his  lance,  braced  on 
his  shield,  and  drew  his  sword;  then  slowly  advan- 
cing, with  marvelous  courage  and  an  undaunted  heart, 
he  planted  himself  before  the  lion's  cage. 

The  keeper,  seeing  that  he  could  not  avoid  letting 

25  loose  the  lions  without  incurring  the  resentment  of  the 
angry  and  daring  knight,  set  wide  open  the  door  of  the 
first  cage  where  lay  a  monster,  which  appeared  to  be  of 
an  extraordinary  size  and  of  a  hideous  and  frightful 
aspect. 


-*8  241   8«- 

The  first  thing  the  creature  did  was  to  turn  himself  - 
round  in  the  cage,  reach  out  a  paw,  and  stretch  him- 
self at  full  length.  Then  he  opened  his  mouth  and 
yawned  very  leisurely ;  after  which  he  threw  out  some 
half  yard  of  tongue,  wherewith  he  licked  and  washed  5 
his  face.  This  done,  he  thrust  his  head  out  of  the 
cage  and  stared  round  on  all  sides  with  eyes  like  red- 
hot  coals ;  a  sight  to  have  struck  temerity  itself  with 
terror ! 

Don  Quixote  observed  him  with  fixed  attention,  im-  10 
patient  for  him  to  leap  out  of  his  den,  that  he  might 
grapple  with  him  and  tear  him  to  pieces. 

But  the  generous  lion,  after  having  stared  about 
him,  turned  his  back  upon  Don  Quixote,  and  calmly 
and  quietly  laid  himself  down  again  in  his  cage.  15 

Upon  which  Don  Quixote  ordered  the  keeper  to 
give  him  some  blows,  and  provoke  him  to  come 
forth.  "  That  I  will  not  do,"  answered  the  keeper ; 
"  for,  should  I  provoke  him,  I  shall  be  the  first  whom 
he  will  tear  to  pieces.  The  lion  has  the  door  open  to  20 
him,  and  the  liberty  to  come  forth;  and  since  he  has 
not  done  so,  he  will  not  come  out  to-day. 

u  The  greatness  of  your  Worship's  courage  is  already 
sufficiently  shown ;  no  brave  combatant  is  bound  to  do 
more  than  challenge  his  foe  and  wait  his  coming  in  the  25 
field ;  and  if  the  antagonist  fails  to  meet  him,  the  dis- 
grace falls  upon  him,  while  the  challenger  is  entitled  to 
the  crown  of  victory." 

"  That  is  true,"  answered  Don  Quixote ;  ;*  shut  the 


-•8  242  9*~ 

door,  friend,  and  give  me  a  certificate,  in  the  best  form 
you  can,  of  what  you  ha,ve  seen  me  perform." 

The  keeper  closed  the  door,  and  Don  Quixote,  hav- 
ing fixed  the  linen  cloth  with  which  he  had  wiped  the 
5  curds  from  his  face,  upon  the  end  of  his  lance,  began 
to  hail  the  troop  in  the  distance,  who  were  still  retir- 
ing, looking  around  at  every  step. 

They  all  stopped,  and  saw  that  it  was  Don  Quixote 
that  made  the  sign ;  and  their  fear  in  some  degree  abat- 
10  ing,  they  ventured  to  return  slowly,  till  they  could  dis- 
tinctly hear  the  words  of  Don  Quixote,  who  continued 
calling  to  them. 

When  they  had  reached  the  cart  again,  Don  Quixote 

said  to  the  driver:  "Now,  friend,  put  on  your  mules 

15  again  and  proceed  on  your  journey ;  and,  Sancho,  give 

two  crowns  to  him  and  the  keeper  to  make  them  amends 

for  this  delay." 

"  That  I  will  with  all  my  heart,"  answered  Sancho ; 
"but  what  is  become  of  the  lions?  Are  they  dead  or 
20  alive?" 

The  keeper  then  gave  an  account  of  the  conflict, 
enlarging  to  the  best  of  his  skill  on  the  valor  of  Don 
Quixote,  at  sight  of  whom  the  daunted  lion  would  not 
or  durst  not  stir  out  of  his  cage,  though  he  held  open 
25  the  door  a  good  while ;  and  upon  his  representing  to 
the  knight  that  it  was  tempting  God  to  provoke  the 
lion  and  force  him  out,  he  had,  at  length,  very  reluc- 
tantly permitted  him  to  close  it. 

Sancho  gave  the  gold  crowns ;  the  carter  yoked  his 


-*g  243  9«- 

muies ;  the  keeper  thanked  Don  Quixote  for  his  present, 
and  promised  to  relate  this  valorous  exploit  to  the  King 
himself  when  he  arrived  at  court. 

"  If,  perchance,  his  Majesty,"  said  Don  Quixote, 
"  should  inquire  who  performed  it,  tell  him  the  5 
knight  of  the  lions;  for  henceforward  I  resolve  that 
the  title  I  have  hitherto  borne,  of  the  knight  of  the 
sorrowful  figure,  shall  be  thus  changed,  and  herein 
I  follow  the  ancient  practice  of  knights-errant,  who 
changed  their  names  at  pleasure."  10 

From  "Don  Quixote." 


-•6  244  8«- 


THE    SIGNING    OF    THE    DECLARATION. 

GEORGE   LIPPARD. 

It  is  a  cloudless   summer  day;   a  clear   blue   sky 

arches    and    expands    above   a   quaint    edifice,    rising 

among  the  giant  trees  in  the  center  of  a  wide  city. 

That  edifice  is  built  of  plain  red  brick,  with  heavy 

5  window  frames  and  a  massive  hall  door. 

Such  is  the  statehouse  of  Philadelphia  in  the  year  of 
our  Lord  1776. 

In  yonder  wooden  steeple,  which  crowns  the  summit 
of  that  red  brick  statehouse,  stands  an  old  man  with 

10  snow-white  hair  and  sunburnt  face.  He  is  clad  in 
humble  attire,  yet  his  eye  gleams  as  it  is  fixed  on  the 
ponderous  outline  of  the  bell  suspended  in  the  steeple 
there,  By  his  side,  gazing  into  his  sunburnt  face  in 
wonder,  stands  a  flaxen-haired  boy  with  laughing  eyes 

is  of  summer  blue.  The  old  man  ponders  for  a  moment 
upon  the  strange  words  written  upon  the  bell,  then, 
gathering  the  boy  in  his  arms,  he  speaks :  "  Look  here, 
my  child.  Will  you  do  this  old  man  a  kindness? 
Then   hasten  down  the   stairs  and   wait  in  the  hall 

20  below  till  a  man  gives  you  a  message  for  me ;  when 
he  gives  you  that  word,  run  out  into  the  street  and 
shout  it  up  to  me.  Do  you  mind  ?  "  The  boy  sprang 
from  the  old  man's  arms  and  threaded  his  way  down 
the  dark  stairs. 


-*8  245  Si- 
Many   minutes   passed.     The   old   bell   keeper   was 
alone.    "  Ah,"  groaned  the  old  man,  "  he  has  forgotten 
me!"     As  the  word  was  upon  his  lips  a  merry  ringing 
laugh  broke  on  his  ear.    -And  there,  among  the  crowd 
on  the  pavement,  stood  the  blue-eyed  boy,  clapping  his    5 
tiny  hands,  while  the  breeze  blew  his  flaxen  hair  all 
about  his  face,  and  swelling  his  little  chest  he  raised 
himself  on  tiptoe  and  shouted  the  single  word  "  Ring !  " 
Do  you  see  that  old  man's  eye  fire  ?     Do  you  see 
that  arm  so  suddenly  bared  to  the  shoulder  ?     Do  you  10 
see  that  withered  hand  grasping  the  iron  tongue  of 
the  bell?     That  old  man  is  young  again.     His  veins 
are  filling  with  a  new  life.     Backward  and  forward, 
with  sturdy  strokes,  he  swings  the  tongue.     The  bell 
peals  out;  the  crowds  in  the  street  hear  it  and  burst  15 
forth  in  one  long  shout.     Old  "  Delaware  "  hears  it  and 
gives  it  back  on  the  cheers  of  her  thousand  sailors. 
The  city  hears  it  and  starts  up,  from  desk  and  work- 
shop, as  if  an  earthquake  had  spoken. 

Under  that  very  bell,  pealing  out  at  noonday,  in  an  20 
old  hall,  fifty-six  traders,  farmers,  and  mechanics  had 
assembled  to  break  the  shackles  of  the  world.  The 
committee,  who  have  been  out  all  night,  are  about  to 
appear.  At  last  the  door  opens  and  they  advance  to 
the  front.  The  parchment  is  laid  on  the  table.  Shall  25 
it  be  signed  or  not  ?  Then  ensues  a  high  and  stormy 
debate.  Then  the  faint-hearted  cringe  in  corners. 
Then  Thomas  Jefferson  speaks  his  few  bold  words, 
and  John  Adams  pours  out  his  whole  soul. 


-*S  246  8*- 

-  Still  there  is  a  doubt ;  and  that  pale-faced  man, 
rising  in  one  corner,  squeaks  out  something  about 
"axes,  scaffolds,  and  a  gibbet."  A  tall,  slender  man 
rises,  and  his  dark  eye  burns,  while  his  words  ring 

5  through  the  halls :  "  Gibbets  !  They  may  stretch  our 
necks  on  every  scaffold  in  the  land.  They  may  turn 
every  rock  into  a  gibbet,  every  tree  into  a  gallows; 
and  yet  the  words  written  on  that  parchment  can 
never  die.     They  may  pour  out  our  blood  on  a  thou- 

10  sand  altars,  and  yet,  from  every  drop  that  dyes  the  axe 
or  drips  on  the  sawdust  of  the  block,  a  new  martyr  to 
freedom  will  spring  into  existence.  What!  are  these 
shrinking  hearts  and  faltering  voices  here,  when  the 
very  dead  upon  our  battlefields  arise  and  call  upon  us 

15  to  sign  that  parchment  or  be  accursed  forever? 

"Sign!  if  the  next  moment  the  gibbet's  rope  is 
around  your  neck.  Sign!  if  the  next  moment  this 
hall  ring  with  the  echo  of  the  falling  axe.  Sign!  by 
all  your  hopes  in  life  or  death,  as  husbands,  as  fathers, 

20  as  men !     Sign  your  names  to  that  parchment ! 

"Yes!  were  my  soul  trembling  on  the  verge  of 
eternity,  were  this  voice  choking  in  the  last  struggle,  I 
would  still,  with  the  last  impulse  of  that  soul,  with  the 
last  gasp  of  that  voice,  implore  you  to  remember  this 

25  truth:  God  has  given  America  to  the  free.  Yes!  as 
I  sink  down  into  the  gloomy  shadow  of  the  grave, 
with  my  last  breath  I  would  beg  of  you  to  sign  that 
parchment" 


-»6  247  %t- 

KING'S   MOUNTAIN. 

A  Ballad  of  the  Carolinas. 
WILLIAM    GILMORE    SIMMS. 

William  Gilmore  Simms  was  born  at  Charleston,  South 
Carolina,  in  1806,  and  died  at  Savannah  in  1870. 

He  made  verses  when  but  seven  years  of  age,  and  during  the 
War  of  1812  wrote  many  a  rhyme  celebrating  the  victories  of 
the  American  army  and  navy.  5 

His  early  education  was  received  in  the  public  schools  of  his 
native  city.  At  the  age  of  eighteen  he  began  the  study  of  law, 
and  was  afterwards  admitted  to  the  bar.  After  practicing  law 
for  a  year,  he  purchased  an  interest  in  a  newspaper,  but  this 
venture  proved  unsuccessful.  10 

Mr.  Simms  then  resolved  to  be  an  author,  and  from  that  time 
was  constantly  at  work.  He  wrote  plays,  poems,  novels,  and 
historical  romances. 

What  Cooper  was  to  the  North,  Simms  was  to  the  South. 
His  writings  are  full  of  vivid  and  picturesque  scenes,  telling  of  15 
the  brave  and  chivalrous  deeds  of  the  people  in  his  section  of 
the  country.     He  was  a  true  American  and  a  man  of  pleasant 
and  genial  manners. 

Hark  !  'tis  the  voice  of  the  mountain, 

And  it  speaks  to  our  heart  in  its  pride, 
As  it  tells  of  the  bearing  of  heroes, 

Who  compassed  its  summits  and  died ! 
How  they  gathered  to  strife  as  the  eagles, 

When  the  foemen  had  clambered  the  height ! 
How,  with  scent  keen  and  eager  as  beagles, 

They  hunted  them  down  for  the  fight ! 


-»6  248  Si- 
Hark  !  through  the  gorge  of  the  valley, 

'T  is  the  bugle  that  tells  of  the  foe ; 
Our  own  quickly  sounds  for  the  rally, 

And  we  snatch  down  the  rifle  and  go. 
As  the  hunters  who  hear  of  the  panther, 

Each  arms  him  and  leaps  to  his  steed, 
Rides  forth  through  the  desolate  antre, 

With  the  knife  and  the  rifle  at  need. 

From  a  thousand  deep  gorges  they  gather  — 

From  the  cot  lowly  perched  by  the  rill, 
The  cabin  half  hid  in  the  heather, 

'Neath  the  crag  where  the  eagle  keeps  still ; 
Each  lonely  at  first  in  his  roaming, 

Till  the  vale  to  the  sight  opens  fair, 
And  he  sees  the  low  cot  through  the  gloaming, 

When  his  bugle  gives  tongue  to  the  air. 

Thus  a  thousand  brave  hunters  assemble 

For  the  hunt  of  the  insolent  foe ; 
And  soon  shall  his  myrmidons  tremble 

'Neath  the  shock  of  the  thunderbolt's  blow. 
Down  the  lone  heights  now  wind  they  together, 

As  the  mountain  brooks  flow  to  the  vale, 
And  now,  as  they  group  on  the  heather, 

The  keen  scout  delivers  his  tale  :  — 

"  The  British  —  the  Tories  are  on  us ; 
And  now  is  the  moment  to  prove 


-*6  249  9«- 

To  the  women  whose  virtues  have  won  us, 
That  our  virtues  are  worthy  their  love  ! 

They  have  swept  the  vast  valleys  below  us, 
With  fire,  to  the  hills  from  the  sea ; 

And  here  would  they  seek  to  o'erthrow  us, 
In  a  realm  which  our  eagle  makes  free !  " 

No  war  council  suffered  to  trifle 

With  the  hours  devote  to  the  deed ; 
Swift  followed  the  grasp  of  the  rifle, 

Swift  followed  the  bound  to  the  steed  ; 
And  soon,  to  the  eyes  of  our  yeomen, 

All  panting  with  rage  at  the  sight, 
Gleamed  the  long  wavy  tents  of  the  foeman, 

As  he  lay  in  his  camp  on  the  height. 

Grim  dashed  they  away  as  they  bounded,  — 

The  hunters  to  hem  in  the  prey, — 
And  with  Deckard's  long  rifles  surrounded, 

Then  the  British  rose  fast  to  the  fray ; 
And  never,  with  arms  of  more  vigor, 

Did  their  bayonets  press  through  the  strife, 
Where,  with  every  swift  pull  of  the  trigger, 

The  sharpshooters  dashed  out  a  life ! 

'T  was  the  meeting  of  eagles  and  lions, 
'T  was  the  rushing  of  tempests  and  waves, 

Insolent  triumph  'gainst  patriot  defiance, 
Born  freemen  'gainst  sycophant  slaves  : 


-»6  250  8«- 

Scotch  Ferguson  sounding  his  whistle, 
As  from  danger  to  danger  he  flies, 

Feels  the  moral  that  lies  in  Scotch  thistle, 
With  its  "  touch  me  who  dare !  "  and  he  dies. 

An  hour,  and  the  battle  is  over ; 

The  eagles  are  rending  the  prey ; 
The  serpents  seek  flight  into  cover, 

But  the  terror  still  stands  in  the  way  : 
More  dreadful  the  doom  that  on  treason 

Avenges  the  wrongs  of  the  state ; 
And  the  oak  tree  for  many  a  season 

Bears  its  fruit  for  the  vultures  of  Fate. 


-•6  26!  &■ 

TRAILING  ARBUTUS. 
HENRY    WARD   BEECHER. 

Henry  Ward  Beecher  was  born  in  Litchfield,  Conn.,  on  the 
24th  of  June,  1813.  He  was  graduated  from  Amherst  College  and 
then  studied  theology  with  his  father,  the  Rev.  Lyman  Beecher. 

He  became  pastor  of  the  Plymouth  Church,  Brooklyn,  when 
he  was  thirty-four  years  of  age  and  held  this  position  until  his    5 
death,  in  1887. 

Mr.  Beecher  was  an  author  and  orator  as  well  as  a  preacher. 

.  .  .  The  ground  was  white  in  spots  with  half- 
melted  snow.  A  few  whirls  of  snow  had  come  down 
in  the  night,  and  the  air  was  too  cold  to  change  to  10 
rain.  Some  green  leaves,  in  sheltered  nooks,  had 
accepted  the  advances  of  the  sun  and  were  preparing 
for  the  summer.  But  that  which  I  came  to  search 
after  was  trailing  arbutus,  one  of  the  most  exquisite 
of  all  Nature's  fondlings.  is 

I  did  not  seek  in  vain.  The  hills  were  covered  with 
it.  Its  gay  whorls  of  buds  peeped  forth  from  ruffles 
of  snow  in  the  most  charming  beauty.  Many  blossoms, 
too,  quite  expanded,  did  I  find ;  some  pure  white,  and 
a  few  more  deliciously  suffused  with  pink.  For  nearly  20 
an  hour  I  wandered  up  and  down,  in  pleasant  fancies, 
searching,  plucking,  and  arranging  these  most  beauti- 
ful of  all  early  blossoms. 

Who  would  suspect  by  the  leaf  what  rare  delicacy 
was  to  be  in  the  blossom  ?     Like  some  people  of  plain  25 


^8  252  8«- 

and  hard  exterior,  but  of  sweet  disposition,  it  was  all 
the  more  pleasant  from  the  surprise  of  contrast.  All 
winter  long  this  little  thing  must  have  slumbered  with 
dreams,  at  least,  of  spring.    It  has  waited  for  no  pioneer 

5  or  guide,  but  started  of  its  own  self  and  led  the  way 
for  all  the  flowers  on  this  hillside. 

Its  little  viny  stem  creeps  close  to  the  ground,  hum- 
ble, faithful,  and  showing  how  the  purest  white  may 
lay  its  cheek  in  the  very  dirt  without  soil  or  taint. 

10  The  odor  of  the  arbutus  is  exquisite,  and  as  delicate 
as  the  plant  is  modest.  Some  flowers  seem  determined 
to  make  an  impression  on  you.  They  stare  at  you. 
They  dazzle  your  eyes.  If  you  smell  them,  they  over- 
fill  your    sense    with    their    fragrance.      They ,  leave 

15  nothing  for  your  gentleness  and  generosity,  but  do 
everything  themselves. 

But  this  sweet  nestler  of  the  spring  hills  is  so  se- 
cluded, half  covered  with  russet  leaves,  that  you  would 
not  suspect  its  graces,  did  you  not  stoop  to  uncover 

20  the  vine,  to  lift  it  up,  and  then  you  espy  its  secluded 
beauty. 

If  you  smell  it,  at  first  it  seems  hardly  to  have  an 
odor.  But  there  steals  out  of  it  at  length  the  finest, 
rarest  scent,  that  rather  cites  desire  than  satisfies  your 

25  sense.  It  is  coy,  without  designing  to  be  so,  and  its 
reserve  plays  upon  the  imagination  far  more  than  could 
a  more  positive  way. 

Without  doubt  there  are  intrinsic  beauties  in  plants 
and  flowers,  and  yet  very  much  of  pleasure  depends  upon 


-»8  253  Q*~ 

their  relations  to  the  seasons,  to  the  places  where  they 
grow,  and  to  our  own  moods.  No  midsummer  flower 
can  produce  the  thrill  that  the  earliest  blossoms  bring, 
which  tell  us  that  winter  is  gone,  that  growing  days 
have  come !  s 

Indeed,  it  often  happens  that  the  air  is  cold  and  the 
face  of  earth  is  brown,  so  that  we  have  no  suspicion  that 
it  is  time  for  anything  to  sprout,  until  we  chance  upon 
a  flower.  That  reveals  what  our  senses  had  failed  to 
perceive  —  a  warmth  in  the  air,  a  warmth  in  the  soil,  10 
an  advance  in  the  seasons  ! 

Strange  that  a  silent  white  flower,  growing  on  a 
hillside,  measures  the  astronomic  changes,  and,  more 
than  all  our  senses,  discerns  that  the  sun  is  traveling 
back  from  his  far  southward  flight!  w 

Sometimes  we  admire  flowers  for  their  boldness,  in 
places  where  that  quality  seems  fit.  When  meadows 
and  fields  are  gorgeous,  we  look  for  some  flower  that 
shall  give  the  climax.  An  intensity  often  serves  to 
reveal  the  nature  of  things  in  all  their  several  grada-  20 
tions. 

A  violet  color  in  these  early  spring  days  would  not 
please  half  so  well  as  these  pure  whites  or  tender 
pinks.  We  like  snowdrops  and  crocuses  >to  come  up 
pale  colored,  as  if  born  of  the  snow  and  carrying  25 
their  mother's  complexion.  But  later,  when  the  eye 
is  used  to  blossoms,  we  wish  deeper  effects  and  pro- 
fusions of  color,  which,  had  they  existed  earlier,  would 
have  offended  us. 


-•6  2i54  8<- 

Flowers  seem  to  have  a  peculiar  power  over  some 
natures.  Of  course  they  gratify  the  original  faculties 
of  form,  color,  odor  ;  but  that  is  the  least  part  of  their 
effect.  They  have  a  mysterious  and  subtle  influence 
5  upon  the  feelings,  not  unlike  some  strains  of  music. 
They  relax  the  tenseness  of  the  mind.  They  dissolve 
its  rigor. 

In  their  presence  one  finds  an  almost  magnetic  trem- 
ulousness,  as  if  they  were  messengers  from  the  spirit 
10  world,  and  conveyed  an  atmosphere  with  them  in  which 
the  feelings  find  soothing,  pleasure,  and  peacefulness. 

Besides  this,  they  are  provocative  of  imagination. 
They  set  the  mind  full  of  fancies.  They  seem  to  be 
pretty  and  innocent  jugglers  that  play  their  charms 
15  and  incantations  upon  the  senses  and  the  fancy,  and 
lead  off  the  thoughts  in  gay  analogies  or  curious  med- 
leys of  fantastic  dreaming. 

From  "Eyes  and  Ears.''1 


-»8  255  Qh- 

THE    CHRISTIAN    KNIGHT    AND    THE    SARACEN    CAVALIER. 
SIR  WALTER   SCOTT. 

For  a  sketch  of  the  life  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  see  "  Cyr's  Fourth  Reader." 

The  burning  sun  of  Syria  had  not  yet  attained  its 
highest  point  in  the  horizon  when  a  knight  of  the  Red 
Cross,  who  had  left  his  distant  northern  home  and 
joined  the  host  of  the  crusaders  in  Palestine,  was  pa- 
cing slowly  along  the  sandy  deserts  which  lie  in  the  s 
vicinity  of  the  Dead  Sea,  where  the  waves  of  the  Jor- 
dan pour  themselves  into  an  inland  sea  from  which 
there  is  no  discharge  of  waters. 

The  dress  of  the  rider  and  the  accouterments  of  his 
horse  were  peculiarly  unfit  for  the  traveler  in  such  a  10 
country.     A  coat  of   linked  mail,  with  long  sleeves, 
plated  gauntlets,  and  a  steel  breastplate,  had  not  been 
esteemed  a  sufficient  weight  of  armor  ;  there  was  also 
his  triangular  shield  suspended  round  his  neck,  and  his 
barred  helmet  of  steel,  over  which  he  had  a  hood  and  15 
collar  of  mail,  which  was  drawn  around  the  warrior's 
shoulders  and  throat  and  filled  up  the  vacancy  between 
the  hauberk  and  the  headpiece.     His  lower  limbs  were 
sheathed,  like  his  body,  in  flexible  mail,  securing  the 
legs  and  thighs,  while  the  feet  rested  in  plated  shoes,  20 
which  corresponded  with  the  gauntlets. 

A  long,  broad,  straight-shaped,  double-edged  falchion, 
with  a  handle  formed  like  a  cross,  corresponded  with  a 
stout  poniard  on  the  other  side.     The  knight  also  bore, 


-»8  256  8«- 

secured  to  his  saddle,  with  one  end  resting  on  his  stir- 
rup, the  long  steel-headed  lance,  his  own  proper  weapon, 
which,  as  he  rode,  projected  backwards  and  displayed 
its  little  pennoncelle,  to  dally  with  the  faint  breeze  or 

5  drop  in  the  dead  calm.  To  this  cumbrous  equipment 
must  be  added  a  surcoat  of  embroidered  cloth,  much 
frayed  and  worn,  which  was  thus  far  useful  that  it 
excluded  the  burning  rays  of  the  sun  from  the  armor, 
which  they  would  otherwise  have  rendered  intolerable 

io  to  the  wearer. 

The  surcoat  bore  in  several  places  the  arms  of  the 
owner,  although  much  defaced.  These  seemed  to  be 
a  couchant  leopard  with  the  motto :  "I  sleep  —  wake  me 
not."    An  outline  of  the  same  device  might  be  traced  on 

15  his  shield,  though  many  a  blow  had  almost  defaced  the 
painting.  The  flat  top  of  his  cumbrous  cylindrical 
helmet  was  unadorned  with  any  crest. 

The  accouterments  of  the  horse  were  scarcely  less 
massive  and  unwieldy  than  those  of  the  rider.     The 

20  animal  had  a  heavy  saddle  plated  with  steel,  uniting 
in  front  with  a  species  of  breastplate,  and  behind  with 
defensive  armor  made  to  cover  the  loins.  Then  there 
was  a  steel  axe  or  hammer,  called  a  mace-of-arms, 
which  hung  to  the  saddlebow;  the  reins  were  secured 

25  by  chain  work,  and  the  front  stall  of  the  bridle  was  a 
steel  plate  with  apertures  for  the  eyes  and  nostrils, 
having  in  the  midst  a  short,  sharp  pike  projecting  from 
the  forehead  of  the  horse  like  Jbhe  horn  of  the  fabulous 
unicorn. 


-*8  257   8<~ 

As  the  Knight  of  the  Couchant  Leopard  continued 
to  fix  his  eyes  attentively  on  the  yet  distant  cluster  of 
palm  trees,  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  some  object  were 
moving  among  them.  The  distant  form  separated 
itself  from  the  trees,  which  partly  hid  its  motions,  and  5 
advanced  toward  the  knight  with  a  speed  which  soon 
showed  a  mounted  horseman,  whom  his  turban,  long 
spear,  and  green  caftan  floating  in  tha  wind,  on  his 
nearer  approach/proved  to  be  a  Saracen  cavalier.  "  In 
the  desert,"  saith  an  Eastern  proverb,  "no  man  meets  a  10 
friend."  The  crusader  was  totally  indifferent  whether 
the  infidel,  who  now  approached  on  his  gallant  barb  as 
if  borne  on  the  wings  of  an  eagle,  came  as  a  friend  or 
foe ;  perhaps  as  a  vowed  champion  of  the  cross,  he  might 
rather  have  preferred  the  latter.  He  disengaged  his  lance  15 
from  his  saddle,  seized  it  with  the  right  hand,  placed  it 
in  rest  with  its  point  half  elevated,  gathered  up  the  reins 
in  the  left,  waked  his  horse's  mettle  with  the  spur,  and 
prepared  to  encounter  the  stranger  with  the  calm  self- 
confidence  belonging  to  the  victor  of  many  contests.        20 

The  Saracen  came  on  at  the  speedy  gallop  of  an  Arab 
horseman,  managing  his  steed  more  by  his  limbs  and 
the  inflection  of  his  body  than  by  any  use  of  the  reins, 
which  hung  loose  in  his  left  hand;  so  that  he  was 
enabled  to  wield  the  light,  round  buckler  of  the  skin  25 
of  the  rhinoceros,  ornamented  with  silver  loops  which 
he  wore  on  his  arm,  swinging  it  as  if  he  meant  to 
oppose  its  slender  circle  to  the  formidable  thrust  of 
the  Western  lance. 


-■8  258  8*- 

His  own  long  spear  was  not  couched  or  leveled  like 
that  of  his  antagonist,  but  grasped  by  the  middle  with 
his  right  hand  and  brandished  at  arm's  length  above 
his  head.     As  the  cavalier  approached  his  enemy  at 

5  full  career,  he  seemed  to  expect  that  the  Knight  of  the 
Leopard  would  put  his  horse  to  the  gallop  to  encounter 
him. 

But  the  Christian  knight,  well  acquainted  with  the 
customs  of  Eastern  warriors,  did  not  mean  to  exhaust 

io  his  good  horse  by  any  unnecessary  exertion  ;  and,  on 
the  contrary,  made  a  dead  halt,  confident  that  if  the 
enemy  advanced  to  the  actual  shock,  his  own  weight 
and  that  of  his  powerful  charger  would  give  him  suf- 
ficient advantage  without  the  additional  momentum  of 

15  rapid  motion. 

Equally  sensible  and  apprehensive  of  such  a  probable 
result,  the  Saracen  cavalier,  when  he  had  approached 
within  twice  the  length  of  his  lance,  wheeled  his  steed 
to  the  left  with  inimitable  dexterity  and  rode  twice 

20  around  his  antagonist,  who,  turning  without  quitting 
his  ground,  and  presenting  his  front  constantly  to  his 
enemy,  frustrated  his  attempts  to  attack  him  on  an 
unguarded  point;  so  that  the  Saracen,  wheeling  his 
horse,  was  fain  to  retreat  to  the  distance  of  a  hundred 

26  yards. 

A  second  time,  like  a  hawk  attacking  a  heron,  the 
heathen  renewed  the  charge,  and  a  second  time  was  fain 
to  retreat  without  coming  to  a  close  struggle.  A  third 
time  he  approached  in  the  same  manner,  when  the 


-»8  259  &- 

Christian  knight,  desirous  to  terminate  this  illusory 
warfare,  in  which  he  might  at  length  have  been  worn 
out  by  the  activity  of  his  foeman,  suddenly  seized  the 
mace  which  hung  at  his  saddlebow,  and,  with  a  strong 
hand  and  unerring  aim,  hurled  it  against  the  head  of  5 
the  Emir ;  for  such,  and  not  less,  his  enemy  appeared. 

The  Saracen  was  just  aware  of  the  formidable  mis- 
sile in  time  to  interpose  his  light  buckler  betwixt  the 
mace  and  his  head  ;  but  the  violence  of  the  blow  forced 
the  buckler  down  on  his  turban,  and  though  that  defense  10 
also  contributed  to  deaden  its  violence,  the  Saracen  was 
beaten  from  his  horse. 

Ere  the  Christian  could  avail  himself  of  this  mishap 
his  nimble  f oeman  sprang  from  the  ground,  and,  calling 
on  his  steed,  which  instantly  returned  to  his  side,  he  15 
leaped  into  his  seat  without  touching  the  stirrup  and 
regained  all  the  advantage  of  which  the  Knight  of  the 
Leopard  had  hoped  to  deprive  him. 

But  the  latter  had  in  the  meanwhile  recovered  his 
mace,  and  the  Eastern  cavalier,  who  remembered  the  20 
strength  and  dexterity  with  which  his  antagonist  had 
aimed  it,  seemed  to  keep  cautiously  out  of  reach  of  that 
weapon  of  which  he  had  so  lately  felt  the  force ;  while 
he  showed  his  purpose  of  waging  a  distant  warfare  with 
missile  weapons  of  his  own.  25 

Planting  his  long  spear  in  the  sand  at  a  distance 
from  the  scene  of  combat,  he  strung  with  great  address 
a  short  bow  which  he  carried  at  his  back,  and,  putting 
his  horse  to  the  gallop,  once  more  described  two  or 


-»8  260  8«- 

three  circles  of  a  wider  extent  than  formerly,  in  the 
course  of  which  he  discharged  six  arrows  at  the  Chris- 
tian with  such  unerring  skill  that  the  goodness  of  his 
harness  alone  saved  him  from  being  wounded  in  as 

5  many  places.  The  seventh  shaft  apparently  found  a 
less  perfect  part  of  the  armor,  and  the  Christian 
dropped  heavily  from  his  horse. 

But  what  was  the  surprise  of  the  Saracen,  when, 
dismounting  to  examine  the  condition  of  his  prostrate 

10  enemy,  he  found  himself  suddenly  within  the  grasp  of 
the  European,  who  had  had  recourse  to  this  artifice  to 
bring  his  enemy  within  his  reach.  Even  in  this  deadly 
grapple  the  Saracen  was  saved  by  his  agility  and  pres- 
ence of  mind.    He  unloosed  the  sword-belt  in  which  the 

15  Knight  of  the  Leopard  had  fixed  his  hold,  and  thus  elud- 
ing his  fatal  grasp,  mounted  his  horse,  which  seemed 
to  watch  his  motions  with  the  intelligence  of  a  human 
being,  and  again  rode  off. 

But  in  the  last  encounter  the  Saracen  had  lost  his 

20  sword  and  his  quiver  of  arrows,  both  of  which  were 
attached  to  the  girdle,  which  he  was  obliged  to 
abandon.  He  had  also  lost  his  turban  in  the  struggle. 
These  disadvantages  seemed  to  incline  the  Moslem 
to   a    truce;    he   approached   the    Christian   with  his 

26  right  hand  extended,  but  no  longer  in  a  menacing 
attitude. 

"  There  is  a  truce  betwixt  our  nations,"  he  said  in 
the  language  commonly  used  for  the  purpose  of  com- 
munication with  the  crusaders ;  u  wherefore  should  there 


^   261   8«- 

be  war   betwixt   thee  and   me?     Let  there  be  peace 
betwixt  us." 

"  I  am  well  contented,"  answered  he  of  the  Couchant 
Leopard,  "  but  what  security  dost  thou  offer  that  thou 
wilt  observe  the  truce  ?  "  5 

"  The  word  of  a  follower  of  the  Prophet  was  never 
broken,"  answered  the  Emir.  "It  is  thou,  brave  Naz- 
arene,  from  whom  I  should  demand  security,  did  I  not 
know  that  treason  seldom  dwells  with  courage." 

The  crusader  felt  that  the  confidence  of  the  Moslem  10 
made  him  ashamed  of  his  own  doubts. 

"  By  the  cross  of  my  sword,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand 
on  the  weapon  as  he  spoke,  "  I  will  be  true  companion 
to  thee,  Saracen,  while  our  fortune  wills  that  we  remain 
in  company  together."  15 

"  By  Mohammed,  Prophet  of  God,  and  by  Allah,  God 
of  the  Prophet,"  replied  his  late  foeman,  "  there  is  not 
treachery  in  my  heart  towards  thee.  And  now  wend  we 
to  yonder  fountain,  for  the  hour  of  rest  is  at  hand, 
and  the  stream  had  hardly  touched  my  lip  when  I  was  20 
called  to  battle  by  thy  approach." 

The  Knight  of  the  Couchant  Leopard  yielded  a  ready 
and  courteous  assent;  and  the  late  foes,  without  an 
angry  look  or  gesture  of  doubt,  rode  side  by  side  to  the 
little  cluster  of  palm  trees.  25 

From  "  The  Talisman." 


-»B  262  &*• 


A    MYSTERIOUS    VISITOR. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE. 


Thomas  Carlyle  was  born  in  a  little  village  in  Scotland,  in 
the  year  1795. 

His  father,  James  Carlyle,  was  a  poor  mason,  so  poor  that  at 
times  there  was  scarcely  enough  food  in  the  house  for  his 
family ;  but  the  father  resolved  that  the  boy  should  have  an 
education,  and  saved,  little  by  little,  the  money  to  pay  for  it. 

When  Thomas  was  ten  years  old,  he  and  his  father  walked  to 
the  town  of  Annan,  where  Thomas  was  to  enter  the  academy. 

The  father  little  dreamed,  as  they 
trudged  along  together,  that  one 
day  his  son  would  be  famous  as 
one  of  the  world's  greatest  writers, 
so  great  that  even  the  Queen  of 
England  would  wish  to  talk  with 
him. 

He  studied  at  the  academy  of 
Annan  for  three  years.  His  father, 
dressed  in  his  coarse  workman's 
clothes,  once  visited  him  there. 
Thomas  was  afraid  that  the  other 
boys  would  laugh  at  him,  but  the 
sturdy  Scotchman  was  so  dignified  that  he  won  their  respect. 

When  Thomas  reached  the  age  of  thirteen  his  parents  decided 

to  send  him  to  the  great  University  at  Edinburgh.     They  walked 

25  through  the  village  streets  with  him  and  watched  him  start  on  the 

highway.     It  was  a  journey  of  a  hundred  miles,  and  he  traveled 

all  the  way  on  foot. 

These  experiences  made  the  boy  brave  and  resolute.     He  was 
not  afraid  of  the  world. 
30       A  few  years  after  leaving  the  University  he  began  to  earn  his 
living  by  writing.     For  many  years  his  income  was  small,  as  he 


-*B  263  3«- 

would  only  write  what  he  thought  would  make  the  world  better. 
He  used  to  say  that  he  would  write  his  books  as  his  father  built 
his  houses,  so  that  they  would  last.  He  scolded  the  world  for 
its  faults,  but  he  was  very  kind-hearted. 

His  "  History  of  the  French  Eevolution  "  is  a  wonderful  work.  5 
When  the  first  volume  of  this  history  was  written,  Carlyle 
loaned  it  to  a  friend,  and  the  manuscript  was  accidentally 
destroyed.  Carlyle  did  not  utter  a  word  of  reproach,  although 
the  loss  meant  months  of  study  and  thought,  but  set  manfully 
to  work  and  wrote  it  once  more.  10 

He  was  fond  of  German  literature,  and  translated  the  "  Wil- 
helm  Meister "  by  Goethe.  He  wrote  many  other  books,  and 
became  so  famous  that  when  Gladstone  retired  from  office  as 
Lord  Rector  of  Edinburgh,  Carlyle  was  made  his  successor.  It 
was  a  great  triumph  for  the  mason's  son ;  but  in  the  midst  of  15 
his  new  honors  his  wife  died,  and  there  was  no  one  to  share  his 
happiness. 

Not   long  after  this,  Queen  Victoria  sent   for   Carlyle   and 
granted  him  a  personal  interview.     On  his  eightieth  birthday 
he  was  honored  by  gifts  from  Scotland,  England,  and  Germany.  20 
He  died  in  1881. 


In  the  village  of  Entepfuhl  dwelt  Andreas  Futteral 
and  his  wife — childless,  in  still  seclusion,  and  cheerful, 
though  now  verging  toward  old  age. 

Andreas  had  been  grenadier  sergeant  and  even  regi-  25 
mental  schoolmaster  under  Frederick  the  Great ;  but 
now,  quitting  the  halbert  and   ferule   for   the  spade 
#and  pruning  hook,  cultivated  a  little  orchard,  on  the 
produce  of  which  he  lived  not  without  dignity. 

Fruits,  the  peach,  the  apple,  the  grape,  with  other  30 
varieties  came  in  their  season,  all  of  which  Andreas 
knew  how  to  sell.     On  evenings  he  smoked  or  read 


-*8  264  fc- 

(as  beseemed  a  regimental  schoolmaster),  and  talked 
to  the  neighbors  about  the  victory  of  Rossbach;  and 
how  "  Fritz  the  Only "  had  once  with  his  own  royal 
lips   spoken   to   him,  and   had   been   pleased   to  say, 

5  when  Andreas  as  camp  sentinel  demanded  the  password, 
u  Peace,  hound  ! "  before  any  of  his  staff  adjutants  could 
answer.  u  There  is  what  I  call  a  king ! "  would  Andreas 
exclaim;  "but  the  smoke  of  Kunersdorf  was  still 
smarting  his  eyes." 

10  Gretchen,  the  housewife,  had  been  won  by  the  deeds 
rather  than  the  looks  of  her  husband,  nevertheless  she 
at  heart  loved  him  both  for  his  valor  and  wisdom. 
Was  not  Andreas  in  very  deed  a  man  of  order,  courage, 
downrightness,  that  understood  Busching's  Geography, 

15  had  been  in  the  victory  of  Rossbach,  and  left  for  dead 
on  the  battlefield  ? 

The  good  Gretchen,  for  all  her  fretting,  watched 
over  him  and  hovered  round  him  as  only  a  true  house- 
mother can;  she  cooked  and  sewed  and  scoured  for 

20  him  ;  so  that  not  only  his  old  regimental  sword  and 
grenadier  cap,  but  the  whole  habitation,  where  on  pegs 
of  honor  they  hung,  looked  ever  trim  and  gay  ;  a 
roomy  cottage,  embowered  in  fruit  trees  and  forest 
trees,  evergreens  and  honeysuckles,  rising  many-colored 

25  from  amid  shaven  grass  plots,  flowers  struggling  in 
through  the  very  windows ;  under  its  long  projecting 
eaves  nothing  but  garden  tools  and  seats  where,  espe- 
cially on  summer  nights,  a  king  might  have  wished 
to  sit  and  smoke  and  call  it  his. 


-»S  265  8«~ 

Into  this  home,  one  meek,  yellow  evening,  it  was 
that  a  stranger  of  reverend  aspect  entered,  and,  with 
grave  salutation,  stood  before  the  two  rather  aston- 
ished housemates.  He  was  closely  muffled  in  a  wide 
mantle,  which  without  farther  parley  unfolding,  he  5 
deposited  therefrom  what  seemed  some  basket,  over- 
hung with  green  Persian  silk,  saying  only :  "  Good 
Christian  people,  here  lies  for  you  an  invaluable  loan ; 
take  all  heed  thereof,  in  all  carefulness  employ  it ; 
with  high  recompense,  or  else  with  heavy  penalty  will  10 
it  one  day  be  required  back."  Uttering  which  singu- 
lar words  in  a  clear,  bell-like,  forever  memorable  tone, 
the  stranger  gracefully  withdrew  ;  and  before  Andreas 
and  his  wife,  gazing  in  expectant  wonder,  had  time  to 
fashion  either  question  or  answer,  was  gone.  15 

Neither  out  of  doors  could  aught  of  him  be  seen  or 
heard ;  he  had  vanished  in  the  thickets,  in  the  dusk ; 
the  orchard  gate  stood  quietly  closed ;  the  stranger  was 
gone  once  and  always.  So  sudden  had  the  whole  trans- 
action been  in  the  autumn  stillness  and  twilight,  so  20 
gentle  and  noiseless,  that  the  Futterals  could  have  fan- 
cied it  all  a  trick  of  imagination,  or  a  visit  from  some 
spirit;-  only  that  green  silk  basket,  such  as  neither 
imagination  nor  spirits  are  wont  to  carry,  still  stood 
visible  and  tangible  on  their  little  parlor  table.  25 

Toward  this  the  astonished  couple,  now  with  lit  can- 
dle, hastily  turned  their  attention.  Lifting  the  green 
veil  to  see  what  invaluable  it  hid,  they  descried  there, 
amid  down  and  rich  white  wrappings,  no  Pitt  diamond 


-»6  266  8«- 

or  Hapsburg  regalia,  but  in  the  softest  sleep  a  little 
red-colored  infant !  Beside  it  lay  a  roll  of  gold,  the  exact 
amount  of  which  was  never  publicly  known ;  also  a  bap- 
tismal certificate,  wherein,  unfortunately,  nothing  but 

5  the  name  was  decipherable. 

To  wonder  and  conjecture  were  unavailing  then  and 
thenceforth.  Nowhere  in  Entepfuhl  did  tidings  tran- 
spire of  any  such  figure  as  the  stranger.  Meanwhile,  for 
Andreas  and  his  wife,  the  grand  practical  problem  was 

10  what  to  do  with  this  little  sleeping  infant !  Amid 
amazements  and  curiosities  which  had  to  die  away 
without  satisfying,  they  resolved,  as  in  such  circum- 
stances charitable,  prudent  people  needs  must,  on  nurs- 
ing it,  if  possible,  into  manhood. 

15  Young  Diogenes,  or  rather  young  Gneschen,  for  by 
such  diminutive  had  they  in  their  fondness  named  him, 
traveled  forward  by  quick  but  easy  stages.  I  have 
heard  him  noted  as  a  still  infant,  that  kept  his  mind 
much  to  himself ;  above  all,  that  he  seldom  cried.     He 

20  already  felt  that  time  was  precious  ;  that  he  had  other 
work  cut  out  for  him  than  whimpering. 

Most  graceful  is  the  following  little  picture :  "  On 
fine  evenings  I  was  wont  to  carry  forth  my  'supper, 
bread  crumbs  boiled  in  milk,  and  eat  it  out  of  doors. 

25  On  the  coping  of  the  orchard  wall,  which  I  could  reach 
by  climbing,  or  still  more  easily  if  Father  Andreas 
would  set  up  the  pruning  ladder,  my  porringer  was 
placed;  there  many  a  sunset  have  I,  looking  at  the 
western  mountains,  consumed  my  evening  meal. 


-*6  267  8<- 

u  Those  hues  of  gold  and  azure,  that  hush  of  the 
world's  expectation  as  day  died,  were  still  a  Hebrew 
speech  for  me ;  nevertheless  I  was  looking  at  the  fair, 
illuminated  letters,  and  had  an  eye  for  their  gilding." 

With  the  little  one's  friendship  for  cattle  and  poul-  5 
try  we  shall  not  much  intermeddle.  It  may  be  that 
hereby  he  acquired  a  certain  deeper  sympathy  with 
animated  nature.  He  says  again  :  "  Impressive  enough 
was  it  to  hear  in  early  morning  the  swineherd's  horn, 
and  know  that  so  many  hungry  quadrupeds  were,  on  all  10 
sides,  starting  in  hot  haste  to  join  him  for  breakfast 
on  the  heath.  Or  to  see  them  at  eventide,  all  march- 
ing in  again  with  short  squeak,  almost  in  military 
order ;  and  each  trotting  off  in  succession  to  the  right 
or  left,  through  its  own  lane,  to  its  own  dwelling."       15 

Thus  encircled  by  mystery,  waited  on  by  the  four 
seasons,  with  their  changing  contributions,  for  even 
grim  winter  brought  its  skating  matches,  its  snow- 
storms and  Christmas  carols,  did  the  child  sit  and 
learn.  These  things  were  the  alphabet  whereby  in  20 
after  time  he  was  to  syllable  and  partly  read  the 
grand  volume  of  the  world ;  what  matters  it  whether 
such  alphabet  be  in  large  gilt  letters  or  in  small  ungilt 
ones,  so  you  have  an  eye  to  read  it  ? 

For  Gneschen,  eager  to  learn,  the  very  act  of  look-  25 
ing  thereon  was  a  blessedness  that  gilded  all ;  his  exist- 
ence was  a  bright,  soft  element  of  joy,  out  of  which 
wonder  after  wonder  bodied  itself  forth  to  teach  by 
charming. 

0  From  "  Sartor  Resartus. " 


->6  268  9«~ 

A  SCENE   FROM  WILLIAM   TELL. 

SHERIDAN  KNOWLES. 

Scene  I. 
[WILLIAM  TELL,   ALBERT   HIS   SON,   AND  GESLER.] 

Gesler.     What  is  thy  name  ? 

Tell.     My  name  ? 
It  matters  not  to  keep  it  from  thee  now :  — 
My  name  is  Tell. 

Ges.     Tell!—    William  Tell? 

Tell     The  same. 

Ges.     What !  he  so  famed  'bove  all  his  countrymen 
For  guiding  o'er  the  stormy  lake  the  boat  ? 
And  such  a  master  of  his  bow,  't  is  said 
His  arrows  never  miss !  —     Indeed  —  I  '11  take 
Exquisite  vengeance  !  —     Mark  !  I  '11  spare  thy  life  — 
Thy  boy's  too  !  —  both  of  you  are  free  —  on  one 
Condition. 

Tell     Name  it. 

Ges.    I  would  see  you  make 
A  trial  of  your  skill  with  that  same  bow 
You  shoot  so  well  with. 

Tell     Name  the  trial  you 
Would  have  me  make. 

Ges.     You  look  upon  your  boy 
As  though  instinctively  you  guessed  it. 

Tell     Look  upon  my  boy !    What  mean  you  ?   Look 
upon 


-»8  269  8«- 

My  boy  as  though  I  guessed  it !  —     Guessed  the  trial 
You  'd  have  me  make !  —     Guessed  it 
Instinctively  !  you  do  not  mean  —  no  —  no  — 
You  would  not  have  me  make  a  trial  of 
My  skill  upon  my  child  !  —    Impossible ! 
I  do  not  guess  your  meaning. 

Ges.     I  would  see 
Thee  hit  an  apple  at  the  distance  of 
A  hundred  paces. 

Tell.     Is  my  boy  to  hold  it  ? 

Ges.     No.  * 

Tell.     No !  —     I  '11    send    the    arrow   through   the 


core 


Ges.     It  is  to  rest  upon  his  head. 

Tell.     Great  Heaven,  you  hear  him ! 

Ges.     Thou  dost  hear  the  choice  I  give  — 
Such  trial  of  the  skill  thou  art  master  of, 
Or  death  to  both  of  you ;  not  otherwise 
To  be  escaped. 

Tell.     0  monster ! 

Ges.     Wilt  thou  do  it  ? 

Albert.     He  will !  he  will ! 

Tell.     Ferocious  monster !  —     Make 
A  father  murder  his  own  child. 

Ges.     Take  off 
His  chains,  if  he  consent. 

Tell.     With  his  own  hand ! 

Ges.     Does  he  consent  ? 

Alb.     He  does.     \_Gesler  signs  to  his  officers,  who  pro- 


-*8  270  9<- 

ceed  to  take  off  TelVs  chains.     Tell  all  the  time  uncon- 
scious what  they  do.'] 

Tell     With  his  own  hand ! 
Murder  his  child  with  his  own  hand  —     This  hand  ! 
The  hand  I  've  led  him,  when  an  infant,  by ! 
'T  is  beyond  horror  —  't  is  most  horrible. 
Amazement !  [His  chains  fall  off.~]    What 's  that  you  've 

done  to  me. 
Villains  !  put  on  my  chains  again.     My  hands 
Are  free  from  blood,  and  have  no  gust  for  it, 
That  they  should  drink  my  child's  !  Here  !  here !  I  '11  not 
Murder  my  boy  for  Gesler. 

Alb.     Father  —  father ! 
You  will  not  hit  me,  father !  — 

Tell.     Hit  thee!—    Send 
The  arrow  through  thy  brain  —  or,  missing  that, 
Shoot  out  an  eye  —  or,  if  thine  eye  escape, 
Mangle  the  cheek  I  've  seen  thy  mother's  lips 
Cover  with  kisses !  —     Hit  thee  —  hit  a  hair 
Of  thee,  and  cleave  thy  mother's  heart  — 

Ges.     Dost  thou  consent  ? 

Tell.     Give  me  my  bow  and  quiver. 

Ges.     For  what  ? 

Tell.     To  shoot  my  boy! 

Alb.     No,  father  —  no  ! 
To  save  me !  —     You  '11  be  sure  to  hit  the  apple  — 
Will  you  not  save  me,  father  ? 

Tell.     Lead  me  forth  — 
I  '11  make  the  trial ! 


-♦6  2.7  \  8«- 

Alb.     Thank  you ! 

Tell.     Thank  me !     Do 
You  know  for  what  ?  —     I  will  not  make  the  trial, 
To  take  him  to  his  mother  in  my  arms, 
And  lay  him  down  a  corpse  before  her ! 

Ges.     Then  he  dies  this  moment  —  and  you  certainly 
Do  murder  him  whose  life  you  have  a  chance 
To  save,  and  will  not  use  it. 

Tell     Well  —  I  '11  do  it :  I  '11  make  the  trial. 

Alb.     Father  — 

Tell.     Speak  not  to  me : 
Let  me  not  hear  thy  voice  —     Thou  must  be  dumb ; 
And  so  should  all  things  be  —    Earth  should  be  dumb 
And  Heaven  —  unless  its  thunders  muttered  at 
The  deed,  and  sent  a  bolt  to  stop  it !     Give  me 
My  bow  and  quiver  !  — 

Ges.     When  all 's  ready. 

Tell.     Well!  lead  on! 

Scene  II. 

Persons.  —  Enter,  slowly,  People  in  evident  distress  — 
Officers,  Sarnem,  Gesler,  Tell,  Albert,  and  soldiers  — 
one  bearing  Tells  bow  and  quiver,  another  with  a 
basket  of  apples. 

Ges.     That  is  your  ground.    Now  shall  they  measure 
thence 
A  hundred  paces.     Take  the  distance. 
Tell.     Is  the  line  a  true  one  ? 


-»6  272  8«- 

Ges.     True  or  not,  what  is  't  to  thee  ? 

Tell.     What  is  't  to  me  ?     A  little  thing, 
A  very  little  thing  —  a  yard  or  two 
Is  nothing  here  or  there  —  were  it  a  wolf 
I  shot  at !     Never  mind. 

Ges.     Be  thankful,  slave, 
Our  grace  accords  thee  life  on  any  terms. 

Tell.     I  will  be  thankful,  Gesler  !  —    Villain,  stop ! 
You  measure  to  the  sun ! 

Ges.     And  what  of  that  ? 
What  matter  whether  to  or  from  the  sun  ? 

Tell.     I'd  have  it  at  my  back  —  the  sun  should  shine 
Upon  the  mark,  and  not  on  him  that  shoots. 
I  cannot  see  to  shoot  against  the  sun  — 
I  will  not  shoot  against  the  sun ! 

Ges.     Give  him  his  way !     Thou  hast  cause  to  bless 
my  mercy. 

Tell.     I  shall  remember  it.     I  'd  like  to  see 
The  apple  I  'm  to  shoot  at. 

Ges.     Stay !  show  me  the  basket !  —  there  — 

Tell.     You  've  picked  the  smallest  one. 

Ges.     I  know  I  have. 

Tell.     0 !  do  you  ? —    But  you  see 
The  color  on 't  is  dark  —     I  'd  have  it  light, 
To  see  it  better. 

Ges.     Take  it  as  it  is : 
Thy  skill  will  be  the  greater  if  thou  hit'st  it. 

Tell.     True  — true!   I  did  not  think  of  that—     I 
wonder 


-hQ  273  9«- 

I  did  not  think  of  that  —     Give  me  some  chance 

To  save  my  boy  !     [  Throws  away  the  apple  with  all  his 

force.] 
I  will  not  murder  him, 
If  I  can  help  it  —  for  the  honor  of 
The  form  thou  wearest,  if  all  the  heart  is  gone. 

Ges.     Well,  choose  thyself. 

Tell.     Have  I  a  friend  among  the  lookers  on  ? 

Verner.     [Rushing  forward.]     Here,  Tell ! 

Tell.     I  thank  thee,  Verner  ! 
He  is  a  friend  runs  out  into  a  storm 
To  shake  a  hand  with  us.     I  must  be  brief : 
When  once  the  bow  is  bent,  we  cannot  take 
The  shot  too  soon.     Verner,  whatever  be 
The  issue  of  this  hour,  the  common  cause 
Must  not  stand  still.     Let  not  to-morrow's  sun 
Set  on  the  tyrant's  banner !     Verner !  Verner ! 
The  boy !  —  the  boy !   Thinkest  thou  he  hath  the  courage 
To  stand  it. 

Ver.     Yes. 

Tell.     How  looks  he  ? 

Ver.     Clear  and  smilingly  : 
If  you  doubt  it  —  look  yourself. 

Tell.     No  —  no  —  my  friend  : 
To  hear  it  is  enough. 

Ver.     He  bears  himself  so  much  above  his  years  — 

Tell.     I  know  !  —     I  know. 

Ver.     With  constancy  so  modest !  — 

Tell.     I  was  sure  he  would  — 


-*6  274  8<~ 

Ver.     And  looks  with  such  relying  love 
And  reverence  upon  you  — 

Tell.     Man!  Man!  Man! 
No  more  !     Already  I  'in  too  much  the  father 
To  act  the  man  !  —     Verner,  no  more,  my  friend  ! 
I  would  be  flint  —  flint  —  flint.     Don't  make  me  feel 
I  'm  not  —     Do  not  mind  me !  —     Take  the  boy 
And  set  him,  Verner,  with  his  back  to  me. 
Set  him  upon  his  knees  —  and  place  this  apple 
Upon  his  head,  so  that  the  stem  may  front  me,  — 
Thus,  Verner ;  charge  him  to  keep  steady  —  tell  him 
I  '11  hit  the  apple  !     Verner,  do  all  this 
More  briefly  than  I  tell  it  thee. 

Ver.     Come,  Albert  !  [Leading  him  out.'] 

Alb.     May  I  not  speak  with  him  before  I  go  ? 

Ver.     No. 

Alb.     I  would  only  kiss  his  hand. 

Ver.     You  must  not. 

Alb.     I  must !  —     I  cannot  go  from  him  without. 

Ver.     It  is  his  will  you  should. 

Alb.     His  will,  is  it  ? 
I  am  content,  then  —  come. 

Tell.     My  boy  !  [Holding  out  his  arms  to  him.] 

Alb.     My  father !  [Bushing  into  TelVs  arms.] 

Tell.    If  thou  canst  bear  it,  should  not  I  ?  —  Go,  now, 
My  son  —  and  keep  in  mind  that  I  can  shoot  — 
Go,  boy  —  be  thou  but  steady,  I  will  hit 
The  apple —     Go! —     God  bless  thee  —  go. —     My 
bow !  —  [The  bow  is  handed  to  him.] 


-»8  275  9«- 

Thou  wilt  not  fail  thy  master,  wilt  thou  ? —     Thou 

Hast  never  failed  him  yet,  old  servant —     No, 

I  'm  sure  of  thee  —     I  know  thy  honesty. 

Thou  art  stanch  —  stanch.  —     Let  me  see  my  quiver. 

Ges.     Give  him  a  single  arrow. 

Tell.     Do  you  shoot  ? 

Sol.     I  do. 

Tell     Is  it  so  you  pick  an  arrow,  friend  ? 
The  point,  you  see,  is  bent ;  the  feather  jagged : 

[Breaks  it.'] 
That 's  all  the  use  't  is  fit  for. 

Ges.     Let  him  have  another. 

Tell     Why,  't  is  better  than  the  first, 
But  yet  not  good  enough  for  such  an  aim 
As  I  'm  to  take  —  't  is  heavy  in  the  shaft : 
I  '11  not  shoot  with  it !    [Throws  it  away.]    Let  me  see 

my  quiver. 
Bring  it !  —     'T  is  not  one  arrow  in  a  dozen 
I  'd  take  to  shoot  with  at  a  dove,  much  less 
A  dove  like  that.  — 

Ges.     It  matters  not. 
Show  him  the  quiver. 

Tell     See  if  the  boy  is  ready. 

[Tell  here  hides  an  arrow  under  his  vest.] 

Ver.     He  is. 

Tell    I  'm  ready,  too !     Keep  silent  for 
Heaven's  sake  and  do  not  stir  —  and  let  me  have 
Your  prayers  —  your  prayers  —  and  be  my  witnesses 
That  if  his  life  's  in  peril  from  my  hand, 


h6  276  9^- 

'T  is  only  for  the  chance  of  saving  it.      [To  the  people.'] 
Ges.     Go  on. 
Tell.     I  will. 
0  friends,  for  mercy  sake,  keep  motionless 
And  silent. 

[Tell  shoots  —  a  shout  of  exultation  bursts  from  the 
crowd —  TelVs  head  drops  on  his  bosom  ;  he  with 
difficulty  supports  himself  upon  his  bow.~\ 
Ver.     [Rushing  in  with  Albert.]     The  boy  is  safe,  — 

no  hair  of  him  is  touched. 
Alb.     Father,  I  'm  safe  !  —  your  Albert 's  safe,  dear 
father,  — 
Speak  to  me  !     Speak  to  me  ! 
Ver.     He  cannot,  boy ! 
Alb.     You  grant  him  life  ? 
Ges.     I  do. 

Alb.     And  we  are  free  ? 

Ges.     You  are.  [Crossing  angrily  behind.] 

Alb.     Thank  Heaven !  —  thank  Heaven  ! 
Ver.     Open  his  vest, 
And  give  him  air. 

[Albert  opens  his  father's  vest,  and  the  arrow  drops. 
Tell  starts,  fixes  his  eye  upon  Albert,  and  clasps 
him  to  his  breast.] 
Tell.     My  boy!—     My  boy! 
Ges.     For  what 
Hid  you  that  arrow  in  your  breast  ?  —     Speak,  slave ! 
Tell.     To  kill  thee,  tyrant,  had  I  slain  my  boy ! 


-»8  277   B*~ 

ADDRESS    TO    THE    SURVIVORS    OF    THE    BATTLE    OF 
BUNKER    HILL. 

DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

Daniel  Webster,  one  of  the  greatest  of  American  statesmen, 
was  born  at  Salisbury,  K  H.,  in  1782. 

His  father,  Ebenezer  Webster,  was  a  farmer  and  Justice  of  the 
County  Court.    He  had  been  an  officer  in  the  Revolutionary  war. 

Daniel  received  his  early  instruction  from  his  mother^  a  woman 
of  rare  intellectual  powers,  and 
from  the  country  school  which 
he  attended  during  the  winters. 

Although  he  became  a  distin- 
guished orator,  he  failed  utterly 
in  public  speaking  at  school. 
He  afterwards  said:  "There 
was  one  thing  I  could  not  do ; 
I  could  not  make  a  declamation. 
I  could  not  speak  before  the 
school." 

Daniel  showed  so  great  abil- 
ity as  a  student  that  the  family 
decided  he  must  attend  college, 

although  this  step  called  for  additional  hardship  and  sacrifice  20 
on  the  part  of  those  at  home.  He  studied  under  the  direction 
of  a  clergyman  in  a  neighboring  town,  spent  one  year  at  Phil- 
lips Exeter  Academy,  and  entered  Dartmouth  College  when  he 
was  fifteen  years  old.  During  his  vacations  he  taught  school 
to  pay  his  expenses.  He  also  assisted  his  brother  Ezekiel  in  25 
obtaining  his  education. 

He  finished  his  course  at  college  with  credit,  and  then  studied 
law  in  Boston.     He  began  his  practice  in  Boscawen,  a  country 
town  near  his  home;  but  after  the  death  of  his  father  he  re- 
moved to  Portsmouth,  and  was  soon  regarded  as  the  leading  30 
man  in  his  profession. 


-»6  278  8«- 

After  a  time  he  removed  to  Boston,  where  he  became  known 
as  one  of  the  ablest  lawyers  of  his  time. 

Webster  was  elected  to  Congress  from  Boston,  and  took  his 
seat  in  December,  1823,  and  continued  to  serve  in  that  position 
5  till  he  was  elected  to  the  Senate,  in  which  body  he  took  his  seat 
on  the  4th  of  March,  1827. 

The  awkward  village  lad  who  could  not  declaim  in  the  district 
school  now  ranked  among  the  most  eloquent  orators  of  the  country. 

On  the  anniversary  of  the  landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers, 

10  Webster  delivered  a  stirring  oration,  which  made  him   famous 

throughout  the  country ;  and  at  the  laying  of  the  corner  stone 

of  the  Bunker  Hill  Monument  he  delivered  an  address  which  has 

•not  been  equaled  in  this  century.    From  that  time  Daniel  Webster 

was  sought  after  for  every  public  occasion.     He  twice  held  the 

15  office  of  Secretary  of  State.     He  resigned  the  latter  office  on 

account  of  failing  health  during  the  summer  of  1852,  and  retired 

to  his  country  seat  at  Marshfield,  Mass.,  where  he  died  in  the 

following  October. 

You  have  come  down  to  us  from  a  former  generation. 

20  Heaven  has  bounteously  lengthened  out  your  lives  that 
you  might  behold  this  joyous  day.  You  are  now  where 
you  stood  fifty  years  ago  this  very  hour,  with  your 
brothers  and  your  neighbors,  shoulder  to  shoulder  in 
the  strife  of  your  country.     Behold  how  altered !     The 

25  same  heavens  are  indeed  over  your  heads;  the  same 
ocean  rolls  at  your  feet ;  but  all  else,  how  changed ! 
You  hear  now  no  roar  of  hostile  cannon ;  you  see  no 
mixed  volumes  of  smoke  and  flame  rising  from  burning 
Charlestown.     The  ground  strewed  with  the  dead  and 

30  the  dying ;  the  impetuous  charge ;  the  steady  and  suc- 
cessful repulse ;  the  loud  call  to  repeated  assault ;  the 
summoning  of  all  that  is  manly  to  repeated  resistance ; 


-*8  279  8<- 

a  thousand  bosoms  freely  and  fearlessly  bared  in  an 
instant  to  whatever  of  terror  there  may  be  in  war  and 
death,  —  all  these  you  have  witnessed,  but  you  witness 
them  no  more.  All  is  peace.  The  heights  of  yonder 
metropolis,  its  towers  and  roofs,  which  you  then  saw  5 
filled  with  wives  and  children  and  countrymen  in  dis- 
tress and  terror,  and  looking  with  unutterable  emotions 
for  the  issue  of  the  combat,  have  presented  you  to-day 
with  the  sight  of  its  whole  happy  population,  come  out 
to  welcome  and  greet  you  with  a  universal  jubilee.  10 
Yonder  proud  ships,  by  a  felicity  of  position  appropri- 
ately lying  at  the  foot  of  this  mount,  and  seeming 
fondly  to  cling  around  it,  are  not  means  of  annoyance 
to  you,  but  your  country's  own  means  of  distinction 
and  defense.  All  is  peace ;  and  God  has  granted  you  15 
this  sight  of  your  country's  happiness  ere  you  slumber 
in  the  grave  forever.  He  has  allowed  you  to  behold 
and  to  partake  the  reward  of  your  patriotic  toils,  and 
he  has  allowed  us,  your  sons  and  countrymen,  to  meet 
you  here,  and,  in  the  name  of  the  present  generation,  20 
in  the  name  of  your  country,  in  the  name  of  liberty,  to 
thank  you. 

But,  alas!  you  are  not  all  here.  Time  and  the  sword 
have  thinned  your  ranks.  Prescott,  Putnam,  Stark, 
Brooks,  Read,  Pomeroy,  Bridge !  our  eyes  seek  for  you  25 
in  vain  amidst  this  broken  band.  You  are  gathered 
to  your  fathers  and  live  only  to  your  country  in  her 
grateful  remembrance  and  your  own  bright  example. 
But  let  us  not  too  much  grieve  that  you  have  met  the 


-*6  2SO  9«- 

common  fate  of  men.  You  lived  at  least  long  enough 
to  know  that  your  work  had  been  nobly  and  success- 
fully accomplished.  You  lived  to  see  your  country's 
independence  established  and  to  sheathe  your  swords 
s  from  war.     On  the  light  of  liberty  you  saw  arise  the 

light  of  peace,  like 

another  morn, 
Risen  on  mid-noon,  — 

and  the  sky  on  which  you  closed  your  eyes  was  cloudless. 

10  Veterans  of  half  a  century !  when,  in  your  youthful 
days,  you  put  everything  at  hazard  in  your  country's 
cause,  good  as  that  cause  was,  and  sanguine  as  youth 
is,  still  your  fondest  hopes  did  not  stretch  onward  to 
an  hour  like  this.     At  a  period  to  which  you  could  not 

15  reasonably  hope  to  arrive,  at  a  moment  of  national 
prosperity  such  as  you  could  never  have  foreseen,  you 
are  now  met  here  to  enjoy  the  fellowship  of  old 
soldiers,  and  to  receive  the  overflowings  of  a  universal 
gratitude. 

20  But  your  agitated  countenances  and  your  heaving 
breasts  inform  me  that  even  this  is  not  an  unmixed 
joy.  I  perceive  that  a  tumult  of  contending  feelings 
rushes  upon  you.  The  images  of  the  dead,  as  well  as 
the  persons  of  the  living,  throng  to  your  embraces. 

25  The  scene  overwhelms  you,  and  I  turn  from  it.  May 
the  Father  of  all  mercies  smile  upon  your  declining 
years  and  bless  them !  and  when  you  shall  here  have 
exchanged  your  embraces,  when  you  shall  once  more 
have   pressed   the   hands   which   have   been   so  often 


-»6  281   8«- 

extended  to  give  succor  in  adversity  or  grasped  in 
the  exultation  of  victory,  then  look  abroad  into  this 
lovely  land,  which  your  young  valor  defended,  and 
mark  the  happiness  with  which  it  is  filled ;  yea,  look 
abroad  into  the  whole  earth,  and  see  what  a  name  you 
have  contributed  to  give  to  your  country,  and  what  a 
praise  you  have  added  to  freedom,  and  then  rejoice  in 
the  sympathy  and  gratitude  which  beam  upon  your 
last  days  from  the  improved  condition  of  mankind. 


THE    AMERICAN    UNION. 
DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

I  have  not  allowed  myself,  sir,  to  look  beyond  the  10 
Union,  to  see  what  might  lie  hidden  in  the  dark  recess 
behind.     Nor  could  I  regard  him  as  a  safe  counsellor 
in  the  affairs  of  this  government  whose  thoughts  should 
be  mainly  bent  on  considering,  not  how  the  Union  may 
be  best  preserved,  but  how  tolerable  might  be  the  con-  is 
dition  of  the  people  when  it  shall  be  broken  up  and 
destroyed.     While   the    Union    lasts,   we   have    high, 
exciting,  gratifying   prospects   spread   out   before   us, 
for  us  and  our  children.     Beyond  that  I  seek  not  to 
penetrate   the   veil.     God   grant  that,  in  my  day  at  20 
least,  that  curtain  may  not  rise !     God  grant  that  on 
my  vision   never  may  be   opened  what   lies  behind! 
When  my  eyes  shall  be  turned  to  behold  for  the  last 


-■6  282  8»- 

time  the  sun  in  heaven,  may  they  not  see  him  shining 
on  the  broken  and  dishonored  fragments  of  a  once 
glorious  Union  ;  on  States  dissevered,  discordant,  bel- 
ligerent ;  on  a  land  rent  with  civil  feuds,  or  drenched, 

5  it  may  be,  in  fraternal  blood.  Let  their  last  feeble 
and  lingering  glance  rather  behold  the  gorgeous  ensign 
of  the  republic,  now  known  and  honored  throughout 
the  earth,  still  full  high  advanced;  its  arms  and  tro- 
phies streaming  in  all  their  original  luster,  not  a  stripe 

io  erased  or  polluted,  not  a  single  star  obscured  ;  bearing 
for  its  motto  no  such  miserable  interrogatory  as  "  What 
is  all  this  worth  ?  "  nor  those  other  words  of  delusion 
and  folly,  of  "  Liberty  first,  and  Union  afterwards  " ; 
but  everywhere,  spread  all  over  in  characters  of  living 

15  light,  and  blazing  on  all  its  ample  folds,  as  they  float 
over  the  sea  and  over  the  land,  and  in  every  wind 
under  the  whole  heavens,  that  other  sentiment  dear 
to  every  true  American  heart  —  "  Liberty  and  Union 
—  now  and  forever  —  one  and  inseparable!" 


-»8  283  8«- 


RECESSIONAL. 


A   Victorian  Ode. 


RUDYARD   KIPLING. 


Eudyard  Kipling  was  born  in  Bombay,  India,  in  1865. 

His  father  and  mother  used  to  meet  beside  Lake  Eudyard, 
and. gave  its  name  to  their  son.  John  Lockwood  Kipling,  the 
father,  was  at  the  head  of  the 
Lahore  School  of  Art,  and  has 
illustrated  a  recent  edition  of  his 
son's  works. 

On  reaching  the  school  age, 
young  Kipling  was  sent  to  Eng- 
land to  be  educated,  as  was  the 
custom  among  the  English  resi- 
dents of  India.  He  was  educated 
in  the  United  Services  College, 
returning  home  at  the  age  of 
eighteen. 

It  was  his  ambition  to  become 
a  writer  and  he  secured  employ- 
ment on  the  "  Civil  and  Military  Gazette."     His  work  here  famil- 
iarized him  with  the  life  in  the  garrisons,  which  he  afterwards 
turned  to  good  account  in  his  ballads  and  short  stories. 

He  was  twenty-one  years  old  when  he  became  assistant  editor 
of  the  "Lahore  Journal."  It  was  a  strange  newspaper  office, 
judging  by  accounts  which  he  has  given  us  of  it.  There  were 
native  type-setters  and  a  queer  Mohammedan  foreman.  In  a 
story  which  he  wrote,  called  "  The  Man  Who  Would  be  King," 
Kipling  tells  how  they  worked  in  the  stifling  Indian  heat. 

From  time  to  time  Kipling  published  verses  and  stories  in  the 
local  paper,  and  when  these  had  been  gathered  together  and  sent 
out  into  the  world  in  the  form  of  a  book  called  "Plain  Tales 


20 


25 


-•8  284  9*~ 

from  the  Hills,"  the  name  of  the  young  author  and  poet  became 
famous. 

He  then  went  to  England  and  made  his  home  in  London. 
He  wrote  many  stories  and  poems  of  the  old  life  in  India, 
5  one  of  the  best  collections  of  which  is  the  "  Barrack-Koom 
Ballads." 

In  London  he  met  Walcott  Balestier,  of  Brattleboro,  Vt.,  and 
they  wrote  stories  together  until  Balestier's  death.  Not  long 
after,  Kipling  married  Caroline  Balestier.  They  came  to  this 
10  country  and  lived  for  a  time  in  Vermont,  where  the  poet  sur- 
rounded himself  with  everything  that  would  remind  him  of  the 
life  in  India. 

Among  other  works  of  Kipling  are  "Soldiers  Three,"  "The 
Phantom  'Kickshaw,  and  Other  Stories,"  the  two  Jungle  Books. 
15  and  "  The  Day's  Work." 

At  the  time  of  Queen  Victoria's  jubilee,  Kipling  wrote  what 
was  perhaps  his  greatest  poem,  the  "  Kecessional,"  which  was 
published  in  "The  London  Times." 

God  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old  — 
Lord  of  our  far-flung  battle  line  — 
Beneath  whose  awful  hand  we  hold 
Dominion  over  palm  and  pine  — 
Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget  —  lest  we  forget ! 


The  tumult  and  the  shouting  dies  — 
The  Captains  and  the  Kings  depart  — 
Still  stands  Thine  ancient  sacrifice, 
An  humble  and  a  contrite  heart. 
Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget  —  lest  we  forget ! 


hB  285  8«- 

Far-called  our  navies  melt  away  — 
On  dune  and  headland  sinks  the  fire — 
Lo,  all  our  pomp  of  yesterday 
Is  one  with  Nineveh  and  Tyre ! 
Judge  of  the  Nations,  spare  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

If,  drunk  with  sight  of  power,  we  loose 
Wild  tongues  that  have  not  Thee  in  awe 
Such  boasting  as  the  Gentiles  use, 
Or  lesser  breeds  without  the  Law  — 
Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

For  heathen  heart  that  puts  her  trust 
In  reeking  tube  and  iron  shard  — 
All  valiant  dust  that  builds  on  dust, 
And  guarding  calls  not  Thee  to  guard. 
For  frantic  boast  and  foolish  word, 
Thy  Mercy  on  Thy  People,  Lord ! 

Amen. 


-»6  286  8*- 


WILLIAM   HICKLING  PRESCOTT. 


William  Hickling  Pkescott  was  born  in  the  quaint 
old  town  of  Salem,  Mass.,  on  the  4th  of  May,  1796. 
His  father  was  a  successful  lawyer,  and  his  mother  was 

a   lady   of   great   ability 
who  spent  much  time  in 
educating    and    training 
her  son.     William  was  a 
bright,   merry  boy,  who 
learned    with    ease,   and 
was     a     great     favorite 
among    the    boys.      The 
first  school   he   attended 
was  taught  by  a  gentle,  old- 
fashioned  lady,  who  was 
called  the  school  mother. 
When  he  was  seven  years 
old  he  was  sent  to  a  more  advanced  school,  taught  by 
"  Master  Knapp,"  and  remained  there  for  five  years. 
Though  strong  and  large  of  his  age,  he  cared  more 
20  for  books  than  he  did  for  boyish  sports.     He  never 
remembered  a  time  when  he  did  not  love  to  read. 

When  he  was  twelve  years  old  his  father  removed  to 
Boston,  and  William  was  sent  to  the  best  classical  school 
then  known  in  New  England.  He  had  George  Ticknor 
25  the  historian  for  a  classmate  and  friend.  The  two  boys 
progressed  so  rapidly  in  Latin  and  Greek  that  they  out- 
distanced the  rest  of  the  class  and  recited  by  themselves. 


-»6  287  8«- 

Books  and  reading  matter  were  then  much  more  rare 
than  now  ;  but  not  far  from  the  Prescott  home  there 
had  been  started  a  library,  called  the  Boston  Athenaeum. 
The  founder,  Mr.  William  Shaw,  who  also  acted  as 
librarian,  was  fond  of  bright  boys  and  allowed  a  few  5 
of  them  to  read  there.  William,  who  was  one  of  his 
favorites,  spent  many  an  hour  in  these  rooms,  reading 
whatever  pleased  his  fancy.  He  was  especially  fond 
of  romances  and  tales  of  wild  adventure. 

His  most  intimate  friend  was  a  son  of  Dr.  Gardiner,  10 
his  teacher,  and  the  boys  were  constantly  together. 
They  used  to  invent  stories  to  tell  each  other  on  their 
way  to  and  from  school.  Prescott's  tales  were  the 
wilder,  for  he  had  a  vivid  imagination  and  had  read 
many  books  of  adventure.  is 

William's  grandfather,  Colonel  Prescott,  had  com- 
manded the  American  forces  at  Bunker  Hill,  and  Wil- 
liam often  listened  to  the  story  of  this  battle,  and 
gazed  with  awe  upon  the  sword  which  the  colonel  wore 
during  the  contest.  He  and  young  Gardiner  amused  20 
themselves  with  fighting  mock  battles,  dressing  in  some 
pieces  of  old  armor  which  they  found  among  the  curi- 
osities of  the  Athenaeum,  and  imagining  that  they  were 
Revolutionary  heroes,  Greeks  or  Romans,  or  knights  of 
the  olden  time.  25 

Prescott  entered  Harvard  College  at  the  age  of  fif- 
teen, passing  his  examinations  with  credit.  He  wished 
to  hold  a  high  rank  in  his  class,  and  as  it  was  an  effort 
for  him  to  apply  himself,  he  made  rules  devoting  a 


-»6  288  8*- 

certain  time  to  each  study.  He  was  of  a  happy,  gay 
disposition  and  enjoyed  the  college  life  ;  but  his  course 
was  interrupted  by  a  painful  accident.  He  was  passing 
out  of  the  dining  hall  one  day  when  the  sound  of  some 

5  frolic  attracted  his  attention  and  he  turned  his  head  to 
see  what  it  was.  At  that  moment  one  of  the  students 
threw  a  piece  of  bread,  which  struck  him  on  the  open 
eye. 

The  shock  of  the  blow  was  so  great  that  he  fell  and 

10  was  taken  to  his  home  and  placed  in  the  charge  of  a 
physician.  After  several  weeks  he  returned  to  college, 
but  the  sight  of  the  injured  eye  was  entirely  destroyed. 
He  was  graduated  with  honors  in  spite  of  this  affliction, 
and  wrote  a  Latin  poem  for  Commencement. 

is  On  leaving  college  Prescott  entered  his  father's  law 
office,  but  continued  reading  Latin  and  Greek.  After 
several  months  his  sound  eye  became  affected  and  there 
was  fear  of  his  becoming  totally  blind.  He  spent  four 
months   in   a  darkened  room  and  bore   his  suffering 

20  bravely,  always  greeting  the  family  with  some  word  of 
cheer,  as  though  they  were  the  sufferers  and  it  was  his 
place  to  comfort  them.  As  soon  as  he  was  able  to 
travel  he  was  sent  to  visit  his  grandfather  Hickling, 
who  was  United  States  Consul  at  the  Azores. 

25  The  passage  was  long  and  trying,  and  he  was  glad 
to  reach  land  and  receive  the  hearty  welcome  of  his 
relatives.  They  lived  in  a  delightful  country  house, 
in  the  midst  of  a  beautiful  garden,  and  Prescott  was 
charmed  with  the  tropical  plants  and  orange  groves. 


«4  289  8*- 

He  had  been  there  but  a  fortnight  when  his  eye  again 
became  affected,  and  he  was  obliged  to  spend  three 
months  in  a  darkened  room.  But  he  was  so  bright 
and  patient  that  he  won  the  hearts  of  all,  and  it  was 
with  sorrow  that  they  finally  saw  him  sail  away.  5 

After  leaving  the  Azores,  he  spent  several  months  in 
Europe,  and  then  returned  to  America,  spending  the 
next  winter  at  home.  He  was  obliged  to  avoid  the 
light;  but  his  old  school  friend,  Gardiner,  read  some 
of  his  favorite  books  to  him  each  day,  and  his  sister  10 
spent  the  greater  part  of  her  time  with  him,  reading 
to  him  for  hours. 

Prescott  was  now  twenty-two  years  old,  and  his  out- 
look for  the  future  was  discouraging.  He  did  not 
know  what  profession  to  follow,  for  there  was  no  hope  15 
of  his  fully  regaining  his  sight.  There  seemed  no 
improvement  in  spite  of  his  quiet  life,  and  he  began  to 
go  about  and. enjoy  society. 

He  was  married,  when  he  was  twenty-four  years  of 
age,  to  Miss  Susan  Amory,  who  was  his  devoted  wife  20 
and  companion.     Mrs.  Prescott's  grandfather  had  also 
been  a  commander  at  the  Battle  of  Bunker  Hill,  and 
captain  of  a  British  sloop-of-war. 

The  swords  worn  by  the  soldier  and  the  sailor  on  that 
day  had  been  handed  down  in  both  families,  and  hung  25 
■for  many  years  in  Prescott's  library,  peacefully  crossed 
above  his  books. 

Prescott  had  now  chosen  a  life  of  literary  work,  and 
persuaded  himself  that  so  long   as   his   hearing  was 


-*6  290  &- 

spared  he  would  be  able  to  succeed.  He  felt  that  he 
must  make  especial  preparation  in  order  to  gain  the 
place  he  desired,  and  began  to  study  as  if  he  were  a 
schoolboy,  reading  the  best  English,  Latin,  French,  and 

5  Italian  authors. 

He  intended  to  study  German,  but  he  became  inter- 
ested in  some  lectures  on  Spanish  literature,  written  by 
his  friend  Mr.  Ticknor,  and  decided  to  write  a  history 
of  the  reign  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella. 

10  This  was  slow  work,  for  although  he  learned  the 
language,  he  was  unable  to  use  his  eyes  and  depended 
on  the  reading  of  a  man  who  could  only  pronounce  the 
Spanish  words.  He  finally  secured  a  secretary  and 
reader  who   understood   Spanish   and   could  copy  his 

15  notes  for  him.  His  own  writing  was  done  with  the 
aid  of  an  instrument  used  by  the  blind,  which  guided 
his  hand  upon  the  paper. 

After  ten  years  of  labor  his  book  was  published. 
Its  success  was  remarkable,  and  it  was  reprinted  in 

20  England,  Germany,  and  Spain. 

Mr.  Prescott  was  then  nearly  forty-two  years  old,  tall, 
handsome,  and  attractive  in  his  manner.  He  led  a  regu- 
lar life,  planning  his  days  carefully,  rising  at  a  fixed 
hour  each  morning,  and  taking  exercise  in  the  open  air. 

25  He  was  a  good  horseman  and  composed  some  of  his 
most  stirring  battle  scenes  as  he  galloped  along  the 
country  roads. 

He  divided  his  time  among  three  residences  —  one 
in  the  city  of  Boston,  another  at  Lynn,  with  a  view  of 


-»6  291   %h- 

the  ocean,  and  a  third  at  Pepperell,  the  old  home  of 
Colonel  Prescott. 

The  success  of   " Ferdinand  and  Isabella"  led  the 
author  to  continue  his  writing,  and  after  resting  for 
some  months,  he  began  to  prepare  the  "  History  of  the   5 
Conquest  of  Mexico,"  which  was  published  six  years 
after  his  first  history.     This  work  was  greeted  with 
applause  throughout  the  country.     Four  years  later  he  ' 
wrote  the  "  History  of  the  Conquest  of  Peru."     He  next 
undertook  the  "History  of  Philip  the  Second,"  but  it  10 
was  never  finished. 

In  spite  of  his  loss  of  sight,  Prescott  gained  the  first 
place  among  our  historians.  He  visited  London  in 
1850,  and  received  a  most  cordial  welcome  and  many 
attentions.  On  his  return  his  health  failed  and  he  15 
spent  less  time  in  writing.  His  family  were  always 
very  dear  to  him,  and  he  delighted  in  gathering  his 
children  and  grandchildren  about  him  in  the  old  home- 
stead at  Pepperell.     Mr.  Prescott  died  in  1859, 


STORMING  THE  FORTRESS. 

WILLIAM  HICKLING  PRESCOTT. 


The  cheering  words  and  courageous  bearing  of  the  20 
cavaliers  went  to  the  hearts  of  their  followers.     All 
now  agreed  to  stand  by  their  leader  to  the  last.     But, 
if  they  would  remain  longer  in  their  present  position, 


-*8  292  Si- 
it  was  absolutely  necessary  to  dislodge  the  enemy  from 
the  fortress;  and,  before  venturing  on  this  dangerous 
service,  Hernando  Pizarro  resolved  to  strike  such  a  blow 
as  should  intimidate  the  besiegers  from  further  attempts 
5  to  molest  his  present  quarters. 

He  communicated  his  plan  of  attack  to  his  officers 
and  formed  his  little  troop  into  three  divisions.  The 
Indian  pioneers  were  sent  forward  to  clear  away  the 
rubbish,  and  the  several  divisions  moved  up  the  prin- 

10  cipal  avenues  towards  the  camp  of  the  besiegers ;  and 
the  three  bodies,  bursting  impetuously  on  the  disordered 
lines  of  the  Peruvians,  took  them  completely  by  sur- 
prise. For  some  moments  there  was  little  resistance, 
and  the  slaughter  was  terrible.     But  the  Indians  grad- 

15  ually  rallied,  and,  coming  into  something  like  order, 
returned  to  the  fight  with  the  courage  of  men  who  had 
long  been  familiar  with  danger.  They  fought  hand  to 
hand  with  their  copper-headed  war  clubs  and  poleaxes, 
while  a  storm  of  darts,  stones,  and  arrows  rained  on  the 

20  well-defended  bodies  of  the  Christians. 

The  barbarians  showed  more  discipline  than  was  to 
have  been  expected;  for  which  it  is  said  they  were 
indebted  to  some  Spanish  prisoners,  from  several  of 
whom  the  Inca,  having  generously  spared  their  lives, 

25  took  occasional  lessons  in  the  art  of  war.  The  Peru- 
vians had  also  learned  to  manage  with  some  degree  of 
skill  the  weapons  of  their  conquerors ;  and  they  were 
seen  armed  with  bucklers,  helmets,  and  swords  of  Euro- 
pean workmanship,  and  even  in  a  few  instances  mounted 


-*6  293  8«- 

on  the  horses  which  they  had  taken  from  the  white  men. 
The  young  Inca  in  particular,  accoutered  in  the  European 
fashion,  rode  a  war  horse  which  he  managed  with  con- 
siderable address,  and,  with  a  long  lance  in  his  hand, 
led  on  his  followers  to  the  attack.  5 

After  a  gallant  struggle,  in  which  the  natives  threw 
themselves  fearlessly  on  the  horsemen,  endeavoring  to 
tear  them  from  their  saddles,  they  were  obliged  to  give 
way  before  the  repeated  shock  of  their  charges.  Many 
were  trampled  under  foot,  others  cut  down  by  the  Span-  10 
ish  broadswords,  while  the  arquebusiers,  supporting  the 
cavalry,  kept  up  a  running  fire  that  did  terrible  execu- 
tion on  the  flanks  and  rear  of  the  fugitives.  At  length, 
trusting  that  the  chastisement  he  had  inflicted  on  the 
enemy  would  secure  him  from  further  annoyance  for  15 
the  present,  the  Castilian  general  drew  back  his  forces 
to  their  quarters  in  the  capital. 

His  next  step  was  the  recovery  of  the  citadel.  It 
was  an  enterprise  of  danger.  The  fortress,  which  over- 
looked the  northern  section  of  the  city,  stood  high  on  20 
a  rocky  eminence,  where  it  was  defended  only  by  a 
single  wall.  Towards  the  open  country  it  was  more 
easy  of  approach ;  but  there  it  was  protected  by  two 
semicircular  walls,  each  about  twelve  hundred  feet  in 
length  and  of  great  thickness.  Within  the  interior  wall  25 
was  the  fortress,  consisting  of  three  strong  towers,  one  of 
great  height,  which,  with  a  smaller  one,  was  now  held  by 
the  enemy,  under  the  command  of  an  Inca  noble,  a  war- 
rior of  well-tried  valor,  prepared  to  defend  it  to  the  last. 


-*6  294  8«- 

As  the  fortress  was  to  be  approached  through  the 
mountain  passes,  it  became  necessary  to  divert  the 
enemy's  attention  to  another  quarter.  A  little  while 
before  sunset  Juan  Pizarro  left  the  city  with  a  picked 

5  corps  of  horsemen,  and  took  a  direction  opposite  to  that 
of  the  fortress,  that  the  besieging  army  might  suppose 
the  object  was  a  foraging  expedition.  But,  secretly 
countermarching  in  the  night,  he  fortunately  found 
the  passes  undefended  and  arrived  before  the  outer 

10  wall  of  the  fortress  without  giving  the  alarm  to  the 
garrison. 

The  entrance  was  through  a  narrow  opening  in  the 
center  of  the  rampart;  but  this  was  now  closed  up 
with  heavy  stones  that  seemed  to  form  one  solid  work 

15  with  the  rest  of  the  masonry.  It  was  an  affair  of  time 
to  dislodge  these  huge  masses  in  such  a  manner  as  not 
to  rouse  the  garrison.  The  Indian  natives,  who  rarely 
attacked  in  the  night,  were  not  sufficiently  acquainted 
with  the  art  of  war  even  to  provide  against  surprise  by 

20  posting  sentinels.  When  the  task  was  accomplished, 
Juan  Pizarro  and  his  gallant  troop  rode  through  the 
gateway  and  advanced  towards  the  second  parapet. 

But  their  movements  had  not  been  conducted  so 
secretly  as  to  escape  notice,  and  they  now  found  the 

25  interior  court  swarming  with  warriors,  who,  as  the 
Spaniards  drew  near,  let  off  clouds  of  missiles  that 
compelled  them  to  come  to  a  halt.  Juan  Pizarro, 
aware  that  no  time  was  to  be  lost,  ordered  one-half 
of  his  corps  to  dismount,  and,  putting  himself  at  their 


-»6  295  8«- 

head,  prepared  to  make  a  breach  as  before  in  the  forti- 
fications. Leading  on  his  men,  he  encouraged  them  in 
the  work  of  demolition  in  the  face  of  such  a  storm  of 
stones,  javelins,  and  arrows  as  might  have  made  the 
stoutest  heart  shrink  from  encountering  it.  The  good  5 
mail  of  the  Spaniards  did  not  always  protect  them ;  but 
others  took  the  place  of  such  as  fell,  until  a  breach  was 
made,  and  the  cavalry,  pouring  in,  rode  down  all  who 
opposed  them. 

The  parapet  was  now  abandoned,  and  the  Indians,  10 
hurrying  with  disorderly  flight   across   the  enclosure, 
took  refuge  on   a  kind  of   platform   or  terrace,  com- 
manded by  the  principal  tower.     Here,  rallying,  they 
shot  off  fresh  volleys  of  missiles  against  the  Spaniards, 
while  the  garrison  in  the  fortress  hurled  down  frag-  15 
ments  of  rock  and  timber  on  their  heads.    Juan  Pizarro, 
still  among  the  foremost,  sprang  forward  on  the  ter- 
race, cheering  on  his  men  by  his  voice  and  example; 
but  at  this  moment  he  was  struck  by  a  large  stone  on 
the  head,  not  then  protected  by  his  buckler,  and  was  20 
stretched  on  the  ground.     The  dauntless  chief  still  con- 
tinued to  animate  his  followers  by  his  voice  till  the  ter- 
race was  carried  and  its  miserable  defenders  were  put 
to  the  sword.     His  sufferings  were  then  too  much  for 
him,  and  he  was  removed  to  the  town  below,  where,  25 
notwithstanding  every  exertion  to  save  him,  he   sur- 
vived the  injury  but  a  fortnight.     He  had  served  in 
the  conquest  of  Peru  from  the  first,  and  no  name  on 
the   roll  of   its   conquerors   is   less   tarnished   by  the 


-»S  296  B»- 


reproach  of  cruelty  or  stands  higher  in  all  the  attri- 
butes of  a  true  and  valiant  knight. 

Though   deeply  sensible   to   his   brother's   disaster, 

Hernando  Pizarro 
saw  that  no  time 
was  to  be  lost  in 
profiting  by  the  ad- 
vantages already 
gained.  Commit- 
ting the  charge  of 
the  town  to  Gon- 
zalo,  he  put  him- 
self at  the  head  of 
the  assailants  and 
laid  vigorous  siege 
to  the  fortresses. 
One  surrendered 
after  a  short  re- 
sistance. The 
other  and  more 
formidable  of  the 
twp  still  held  out 
under  the  brave 
Inca  noble  who 
commanded  it.  He 
was  a  man  of  an  athletic  frame,  and  might  be  seen 
striding  along  the  battlements,  armed  with  a  Spanish 
buckler  and  cuirass,  and  in  his  hand  wielding  a  formi- 
dable mace,  garnished  with  points  or  knobs  of  copper. 


STORMING    THE    FORTRESS. 


-4  297  &- 

With  this  terrible  weapon  he  struck  down  all  who 
attempted  to  force  a  passage  into  the  fortress.  Some 
of  his  own  followers  who  proposed  a  surrender  he 
is  said  to  have  slain  with  his  own  hand.  Ladders 
were  planted  against  the  walls;  but  no  sooner  did  a  5 
Spaniard  gain  the  topmost  round  than  he  was  hurled 
to  the  ground  by  the  strong  arm  of  the  Indian  warrior. 
His  activity  was  equal  to  his  strength ;  and  he  seemed 
to  be  at  every  point  the  moment  that  his  presence  was 
needed.  io 

The  Spanish  commander  was  filled  with  admiration 
at  this  display  of  valor ;  for  he  could  admire  valor  even 
in  an  enemy.  He  gave  orders  that  the  chief  should  not 
be  injured,  but  be  taken  alive,  if  possible.  This  was 
not  easy.  At  length,  numerous  ladders  having  been  15 
planted  against  the  tower,  the  Spaniards  scaled  it  on 
several  quarters  at  the  same  time,  and,  leaping  into  the 
place,  overpowered  the  few  combatants  who  still  made 
a  show  of  resistance.  But  the  Inca  chieftain  was  not 
to  be  taken ;  and,  finding  further  resistance  ineffectual,  20 
he  sprang  to  the  edge  of  the  battlements,  and  casting 
away  his  war  club,  wrapped  his  mantle  around  him  and 
threw  himself  headlong  from  the  summit.  He  died  like 
an  ancient  Eoman.  He  had  struck  his  last  stroke  for 
the  freedom  of  his  country,  and  he  scorned  to  survive  25 
her  dishonor.  The  Castilian  commander  left  a  small 
force  in  garrison  to  secure  his  conquest,  and  returned 
in  triumph  to  his  quarters. 

From  "  History  of  the  Conquest  of  Peru." 


~**q  ^iy  o  y** 


A  COUNTRY   SUNDAY. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON. 


Joseph  Addison  was  born  in  England  in  1672.  His  father 
was  a  clergyman,  well  educated  and  of  strong  character.  He  was 
devoted  to  his  family,  and  their  home  life  was  delightful. 

Joseph  first  attended  the  schools  in  the  neighborhood,  and 

was  then  sent  to  the  Charter- 
house, which  was  one  of  the 
best-known  schools  in  England. 
He  entered  Oxford  when  he 
was  fifteen  years  old,  and  was 
looked  upon  as  a  promising 
scholar.  After  two  years  at 
this  college  a  copy  of  some 
Latin  verses  written  by  him 
fell  into  the  hands  of  Dr.  Lan- 
caster, a  man  of  influence,  and 
he  was  elected  to  a  scholarship 
in  Magdalen  College. 

His  life  there  was  quiet ;  he 
studied  late  at  night,  and  went 
20  on  long,  solitary  walks.     He  continued  to  write  Latin  verses,  and 
became  so  familiar  with  the  Latin  writers  that  he  could  recite 
many  of  their  poems.     Every  little  touch  of  beauty  was  appre- 
ciated by  him  and  filled  him  with  delight. 

From  his  twenty-first  to  his  thirty-second  year  Addison  spent 
25  his  time  in  study,  writing,  and  thought. 

He  spent  several  years  in  traveling  about  France  and  Italy. 
While  in  Paris  he  lived  at  the  house  of  the  ambassador,  where 
he  met  the  most  brilliant  society ;  and  in  Italy  he  studied  the 
great  works  of  art.  These  views  of  life,  added  to  his  natural  grace 
30  and  love  of  refinement,  made  him  a  master  of  literary  style  and 
expression.  On  his  return  from  his  travels  he  held  several  offices 
for  the  government,  and  later  became  a  member  of  Parliament. 


->8  299  8«~ 

Kichard  Steele,  an  old  schoolfellow  and  writer  of  some  note, 
started  some  periodicals  —  "The  Tatler,"  followed  by  "The 
Spectator,"  and  later  by  "The  Guardian."  Addison  became 
interested  in  these  publications  and  wrote  a  large  number  of 
essays  for  them  —  among  them  the  "Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  5 
Papers."  His  characters  were  taken  from  life  and  he  describes 
the  manners  and  customs  of  the  time  in  language  which  is  cited 
by  all  critics  as  a  model  of  pure  English.  He  also  wrote  several 
dramas  and  poems. 

Addison  led  a  happy  life.     His  position  under  the  government  10 
brought  him  a  good  income.     He  was  looked  upon  as  one  of 
the  foremost  writers  of  the  day.     He  loved  truth,  purity,  and 
kindness,  and  his  works  are  models  of  grace  and  beauty. 

He  died  in  1719,  and  was  buried  in  the  Poets'  Corner  at 
Westminster  Abbey.  •  15 

I  am  always  very  well  pleased  with  a  country  Sun- 
day, and  think  if  keeping  holy  the  seventh  day  were 
only  a  human  institution,  it  would  be  the  best  method 
that  could  have  been  thought  of  for  the  polishing  and 
civilizing  of  mankind.  It  is  certain  the  country  people  20 
would  soon  degenerate  into  a  kind  of  savages  and  bar- 
barians, were  there  not  such  frequent  returns  of  a  stated 
time,  in  which  the  whole  village  meet  together  with  their 
best  faces,  and  in  their  cleanliest  habits,  to  converse  with 
one  another  upon  indifferent  subjects,  hear  their  duties  25 
explained  to  them,  and  join  together  in  adoration  of  the 
Supreme  Being. 


My  friend,  Sir  Roger,  being  a  good  churchman,  has 
beautified  the  inside  of  his  church  with  several  texts  of 


->8  300  fr» 


his  own  choosing.  He  has  likewise  given  a  handsome 
pulpit  cloth,  and  railed  in  the  communion  table  at  his 
own  expense. 

He  has  often  told  me  that  at  his 
coming  to  his  estate,  he  found  his 
parishioners  very  irregular;  and  that 
in  order  to  make  them  kneel  and  join 
in  the  responses,  he  gave  every  one  of 
them  a  hassock  and  a  Common  Prayer 
Book ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  employed 
an  itinerant  singing-master,  who  goes 
about  the  country  for  that  purpose,  to 

It 


instruct  them  rightly 

in  the  tunes  of  the 
15  Psalms,   upon    which 

they  now  very  much 

value  themselves,  and 

indeed  outdo  most  of 

the  country  churches 

20  that  I  have  ever  heard. 

As    Sir    Roger    is 

landlord  to  the  whole 

congregation,  he  keeps  them 

in  very  good  order,  and  will 

&.  ■.        i  1  .,       SIR   ROGER   MEETING   HIS  TENANTS 

25  suiler  nobody  to  sleep  in  it  at  church. 


-»8  301  9«- 

besides  himself ;  for,  if  by  chance  he  has  been  surprised 
into  a  short  nap  at  sermon,  upon  recovering  out  of  it 
he  stands  up  and  looks  about  him,  and,  if  he  sees  any- 
body else  nodding,  either  wakes  them  himself,  or  sends 
his  servants  tcfthem.  Several  other  of  the  old  knight's  5 
particularities  break  out  upon  these  occasions.  Some- 
times he  will  be  lengthening  out  a  verse  in  the  singing 
Psalms,  half  a  minute  after  the  rest  of  the  congrega- 
tion have  done  with  it ;  sometimes  when  he  is  pleased 
with  the  matter  of  his  devotion,  he  pronounces  "Amen  "  10 
three  or  four  times  to  the  same  prayer;  and  some- 
times stands  up  when  everybody  else  is  upon  their 
knees,  to  count  the  congregation,  or  see  if  any  of 
his  tenants  are  missing.  I  was  yesterday  very  much 
surprised  to  hear  my  old  friend,  in  the  midst  of  the  15 
service,  calling  out  to  one  John  Matthews  to  mind 
what  he  was  about,  and  not  disturb  the  congregation. 
This  John  Matthews,  it  seems,  is  remarkable  for  being 
an  idle  fellow,  and  at  that  time  was  kicking  his  heels 
for  his  diversion.  20 

This  authority  of  the  knight,  though  exerted  in  that 
odd  manner  which  accompanies  him  in  all  circum- 
stances of  life,  has  a  very  good  effect  upon  the  parish, 
who  are  not  polite  enough  to  see  anything  ridiculous  in 
his  behavior ;  besides  that,  the  general  good  sense  and  25 
worthiness  of  his  character  make  his  friends  observe 
these  little  singularities  as  foils  that  rather  set  off  than 
blemish  his  good  qualities. 

As  soon  as  the  sermon  is  finished,  nobody  presumes  to 


-*8  302  8«- 

stir  till  Sir  Roger  is  gone  out  of  the  church.  The  knight 
walks  down  from  his  seat  in  the  chancel  between  a  double 
row  of  his  tenants,  who  stand  bowing  to  him  on  each 
side,  and  every  now  and  then  inquires  how  such  an  one's 

5  wife,  or  mother,  or  son,  or  father  do,  whtfm  he  does  not 
see  at  church ;  which  is  understood  as  a  secret  reprimand 
to  the  person  that  is  absent. 

The  chaplain  has  often  told  me  that  upon  a  catechis- 
ing day,  when  Sir  Roger  has  been  pleased  with  a  boy 

10  that  answers  well,  he  has  ordered  a  Bible  to  be  given 
him  next  day  for  his  encouragement,  and  sometimes 
accompanies  it  with  a  flitch  of  bacon  to  his  mother. 

Sir  Roger  has  likewise  added  five  pounds  a  year  to 
the  clerk's  place ;  and,  that  he  may  encourage  the  young 

15  fellows  to  make  themselves  perfect  in  the  church  service, 
has  promised  upon  the  death  of  the  present  incumbent, 
who  is  very  old,  to  bestow  it  according  to  merit. 

From  "  The  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  Papers." 


-»8  303  8<- 


THE   KING  OF  GLORY. 


The  earth  is  the  Lord's,  and  the  fulness  thereof ; 
The  world,  and  they  that  dwell  therein. 
For  he  hath  founded  it  upon  the  seas, 
And  established  it  upon  the  floods. 

Who  shall  ascend  into  the  hill  of  the  Lord  ? 
Or  who  shall  stand  in  his  holy  place  ? 

He  that  hath  clean  hands,  and  a  pure  heart ; 
Who  hath  not  lifted  up  his  soul  unto  vanity, 
Nor  sworn  deceitfully. 

He  shall  receive  the  blessing  from  the  Lord, 
And  righteousness  from  the  God  of  his  salvation. 

Lift  up  your  heads,  0  ye  gates ; 

And  be  ye  lifted  up,  ye  everlasting  doors ; 

And  the  King  of  Glory  shall  come  in. 

Who  is  this  King  of  Glory  ? 

The  Lord  strong  and  mighty, 
The  Lord  mighty  in  battle. 

Lift  up  your  heads,  0  ye  gates ; 

Even  lift  them  up,  ye  everlasting  doors ; 

And  the  King  of  Glory  shall  come  in. 

Who  is  this  King  of  Glory  ? 

The  Lord  of  hosts,  he  is  the  King  of  Glory. 

Lift  up  your  heads,  0  ye  gates ; 

Even  lift  them  up,  ye  everlasting  doors ; 

And  the  King  of  Glory  shall  come  in. 


-»6  304  8<- 


THE   MAN  WITHOUT  A  COUNTRY. 

[Abridged.] 
EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE. 

Edward  Everett  Hale  was  born  in  Boston  in  1822.  He  was 
named  for  his  uncle,  Edward  Everett,  the  celebrated  orator.  When 
six  years  of  age  he  had  begun  the  study  of  Latin,  and  entered  Har- 
vard College  when  he  was  thir- 
teen. Though  young  Hale  was 
a  diligent  student,  he  excelled 
in  athletic  sports,  and  his  great 
physical  strength  is  shown  even 
now  in  his  large  frame  and  pow- 
erful hands  and  arms. 

The     future     author     and 
preacher     was    graduated    from 
Harvard    with   honors  when  he 
was    seventeen  years   old.      He 
assisted  his  father  in  newspaper 
work,    and    was    able   to   write 
editorials,    keep    the    books,   or 
set   type,   as    the    occasion    required.     He    afterwards   studied 
theology. 
20       His  first  pastorate  was   at  Worcester,  Mass.     He  remained 
there  for  ten  years.     He  then  settled  in  Boston.     He  was  with 
the  Massachusetts  Kifle  Corps  when  the  Civil  War  broke  out, 
and  it  was  upon  an  incident  of  that  war  that  he  founded  his 
story  of  "The  Man  without  a  Country."     This   is  one  of   the 
25  strongest  stories  of   patriotism  ever  written,  and  has  been  re- 
printed in  several  languages. 

For  many  years  Dr.  Hale  has  been  pastor  of  the  South  Con- 
gregational Church   in   Boston.     He   has  written  many  books; 
among  them  the  best  known  are  "  Ten  Times  One  is  Ten  "  and 
30  "  In  His  Name." 


-»8  305  8«- 

One  can  hardly  imagine  a  busier  life  than  he  leads.  His  daily 
tasks  consist  in  aiding  public  and  private  charities,  lecturing, 
editing,  writing,  and  preparing  his  sermons. 

He  was  once  asked  how  he  was  able  to  accomplish  so  much, 
and  he  replied :  "  If  you  are  working  with  Aladdin's  lamp,  or  5 
with  Monte  Cristo's  treasures,  you  are  not  apt  to  think  you  will 
fail.     Far  less  is  your  risk  with  the  omnipotence  of  the  Lord 
God  behind  you." 

Philip  Nolan  was  as  fine  a  young  officer  as  there 
was  in  the  "  Legion  of  the  West,"  as  the  Western  10 
division  of  our  army  was  then  called.  When  Aaron 
Burr  made  his  first  dashing  expedition  down  to  New 
Orleans,  or  somewhere  above  on  the  river,  he  met  this 
gay,  dashing,  bright  young  fellow,  at  some  dinner 
party,  I  think.  Burr  marked  him,  talked  to  him,  15 
walked  with  him,  took  him  a  day  or  two's  voyage  in 
his  flatboat,  and,  in  short,  fascinated  him,  and  led 
hinl  to  turn  traitor  to  his  country. 

Nolan  was  proved  guilty;  yet  you  and  I  would 
never  have  heard  of  him,  reader,  but  that  when  the  20 
president  of  the  court  asked  him  at  the  close  whether 
he  wished  to  say  anything  to  show  that  he  had 
always  been  faithful  to  the  United  States,  he  cried 
out  in  a  fit  of  frenzy :  u  Curse  the  United  States ! 
I  wish  I  may  never  hear  of  the  United  States  25 
again ! " 

I  suppose  he  did  not  know  how  the  words  shocked 
old  Colonel  Morgan,  who  was  holding  the  court.  Half 
the  officers  who  sat  in  it  had  served  through  the  Revo- 
lution, and  their  lives,  not  to  say  their  necks,  had  been  30 


-»8  306  fr- 

risked  for  the  very  idea  which  he  so  cavalierly  cursed 
in  his  madness. 

Morgan  called  the  court  into  his  private  room,  and 
returned  in  fifteen  minutes  with  a  face  like  a  sheet,  to 
5  say  :  "  Prisoner,  hear  the  sentence  of  the  Court !  The 
Court  decides,  subject  to  the  approval  of  the  President, 
that  you  never  hear  the  name  of  the  United  States 
again." 

Nolan  laughed;  but  nobody  else  laughed.  Old 
10  Morgan  was  too  solemn,  and  the  whole  room  was 
hushed  dead  as  night  for  a  minute.  Even  Nolan  lost 
his  swagger  in  a  moment.  '  Then  Morgan  added  :  "  Mr. 
Marshal,  take  the  prisoner  to  Orleans  in  an  armed 
boat,  and  deliver  him  to  the  naval  commander  there." 
15  The  marshal  gave  his  orders  and  the  prisoner  was 
taken  out  of  court. 

"Mr.  Marshal,"  continued  old  Morgan,  "see  that 
no  one  mentions  the  United  States  to  the  prisoner. 
Mr.  Marshal,  make  my  respects  to  Lieutenant  Mitchell 
20  at  Orleans,  and  request  him  to  order  that  no  one  shall 
mention  the  United  States  to  the  prisoner  while  he  is 
on  board  ship." 

Nolan  had  the  freedom  of  the  ship  he  was  on,  so 
long  as  he  heard  nothing  of  his  country.  No  mess 
25  liked  to  have  him  permanently,  because  his  presence 
cut  off  all  talk  of  home  or  of  the  prospect  of  return, 
of  politics  or  letters,  of  peace  or  of  war  —  cut  off 
more  than  half  the  talk  men  liked  to  have  at  sea. 

Sometimes,  when  the   marines  or  sailors   had  any 


-»8  307  B**- 

special  jollification,  they  were  permitted  to  invite 
"  Plain-Buttons, "  as  they  called  him.  Then  Nolan 
was  sent  with  some  officer,  and  the  men  were  for- 
bidden to  speak  of  home  while  he  was  there.  I  believe 
the  theory  was  that  the  sight  of  his  punishment  did  5 
them  good.  They  called  him  "  Plain-Buttons,"  because, 
while  he  always  chose  to  wear  a  regulation  army  uni- 
form, he  was  not  permitted  to  wear  the  army  button, 
for  the  reason  that  it  bore  either  the  initials  or  the 
insignia  of  the  country  he  had  disowned.  10 

As  he  was  almost  never  permitted  to  go  on  shore, 
even  though  the  vessel  lay  in  port  for  months,  his 
time  at  the  best  hung  heavy ;  and  everybody  was  per- 
mitted to  lend  him  books,  if  they  were  not  published 
in  America  and  made  no  allusion  to  it.  He  had  almost  15 
all  the  foreign  papers  that  came  into  the  ship,  sooner 
or  later ;  only  somebody  must  go  over  them  first,  and 
cut  out  any  advertisement  or  stray  paragraph  that 
alluded  to  America.  ' 

Among  these  books  was  the  "  Lay  of  the  Last  20 
Minstrel,"  which  they  had  all  of  them  heard  of,  but 
which  most  of  them  had  never  seen.  I  think  it  could 
not  have  been  published  long.  Well,  nobody  thought 
there  could  be  any  risk  of  anything  national  in  that,  so 
Nolan  was  permitted  to  join  the  circle  one  afternoon  25 
when  a  lot  of  them  sat  on  deck  smoking  and  reading 
aloud.  Well,  so  it  happened  that  in  his  turn  Nolan 
took  the  book  and  read  to  the  others ;  and  he  read 
very  well,  as  I  know.     Nobody  in  the  circle  knew  a 


-»6  308  9«- 

line  of  the  poem,  only  it  was  all  magic  and  Border  chiv- 
alry, and  was  ten  thousand  years  ago.  Poor  Nolan  read 
steadily  through  the  fifth  canto,  stopped  a  minute  and 
then  began,  without  a  thought  of  what  was  coming :  — 

5  "  Breathes  there  the  man,  with  soul  so  dead, 

Who  never  to  himself  hath  said." 

It  seems  impossible  to  us  that  anybody  ever  heard  this 
for  the  first  time,  but  all  these  fellows  did  then,  and 
poor   Nolan   himself   went  on,  still   unconsciously  or 
10  mechanically :  — 

" l  This  is  my  own,  my  native  land  ! ' " 

Then  they  all  saw  something  was  to  pay;  but  he  ex- 
pected to  get  through,  I  suppose,  turned  a  little  pale, 
but  plunged  on  :  — 

15  "  Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burned, 

As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned, 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand  ? 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well." 

By  this  time  the  men  were  all  beside  themselves,  wish- 
20  ing  there  was  any  way  to  make  him  turn  over  two 
pages;   but   he  had  not  quite  presence  of   mind   for 
that;   he  colored  crimson  and  staggered  on:  — 

"  For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell ; 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 
25  Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim ; 


-»e  309  e<- 

Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 
The  wretch,  concentered  all  in  self,"  — 

And  here  the  poor  fellow  choked,  could  not  go  on,  but 
started  up,  swung  the  book  into  the  sea,  vanished  into 
his  stateroom,  and  we  did  not  see  him  for  two  months  5 
again.  He  never  read  aloud  again  unless  it  was  the 
Bible  or  Shakespeare,  or  something  else  he  was  sure  of. 
But  it  was  not  that  merely.  He  never  entered  in  with 
the  other  young  men  exactly  as  a  companion  again. 

In  one  of  the  great  frigate  duels  with  the  English,  it  10 
happened  that  a  round-shot  from  the  enemy  entered 
one  of  our  ports  square,  and  took  right  down  the  officer 
of  the  gun  himself,  and  almost  every  man  of  the  gun's 
crew.    Now  you  may  say  what  you  choose  about  courage, 
but  that  is  not  a  nice  thing  to  see.     But,  as  the  men  15 
who  were  not  killed  picked  themselves  up,  and  as  they 
and  the  surgeon's  people  were  carrying  off  the  bodies, 
there  appeared  Nolan,  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  with  the 
rammer  in  his  hand,  and,  just  as  if  he  had  been  the 
officer,  told  them  off  with  authority  —  who  should  go  20 
to  the  cockpit  with  the  wounded  men,  who  should  stay 
with  him  —  perfectly  cheery,  and  with  that  way  which 
makes  men  feel  sure  all  is  right  and  is  going  to  be 
right.     And  he  finished  loading  the  gun  with  his  own 
hands,  aimed  it,  and  bade  the  men  fire.     And  there  he  25 
stayed,  captain  of  that  gun,  keeping  those  fellows  in 
spirits,  till  the  enemy  struck,  —  sitting  on  the  carriage 


-»S  Sio  8«~ 

while  the  gun  was  cooling,  though  he  was  exposed  all 
the  time,  —  showing  them  easier  ways  to  handle  heavy 
shot,  making  the  raw  hands  laugh  at  their  own  blun- 
ders, and  when  the  gun  cooled  again,  getting  it  loaded 

5  and  fired  twice  as  often  as  any  other  gun  on  the  ship. 

The  captain  walked   forward  by  way  of  encouraging 

the  men,  and  Nolan  touched  his  hat  and  said :  "lam 

showing  them  how  we  do  this  in  the  artillery,  sir." 

The  commodore  said :  "I  see  you  are,  and  I  thank 

10  you,  sir ;  and  I  shall  never  forget  this  day,  sir,  and 
you  never  shall,  sir." 

And  after  the  whole  thing  was  over,  and  he  had  the 
Englishman's  sword,  in  the  midst  of  the  state  and 
ceremony  of  the  quarter-deck,  he  said :  u  Where  is  Mr. 

is  Nolan  ?    Ask  Mr.  Nolan  to  come  here." 

And  when  Nolan  came  he  said:  "Mr.  Nolan,  we 
are  all  very  grateful  to  you  to-day ;  you  are  one  of  us 
to-day ;  you  will  be  named  in  the  dispatches." 

And  then  the  old  man  took  off  his  own  sword  of 

20  ceremony  and  gave  it  to  Nolan,  and  made  him  put  it 
on.  The  man  told  me  this  who  saw  it.  Nolan  cried 
like  a  baby,  and  well  he  might.  He  had  not  worn  a 
sword  since  that  day  at  Fort  Adams.  But  always 
afterwards,  on  occasions  of   ceremony,  he  wore  that 

25  quaint  old  French  sword  of  the  commodore's. 

I  first  came  to  understand  anything  about  "  the  man 
without  a  country"  one  day  when  we  overhauled  a 
dirty  little  schooner  which  had  slaves  on  board.     An 


-■8  31 1  8*- 

officer  was  sent  to  take  charge  of  her,  and  after  a  few 
minutes  he  sent  back  his  boat  to  ask  that  some  one 
might  be  sent  him  who  could  speak  Portuguese.  Nolan 
stepped  out  and  said  he  should  be  glad  to  interpret  if 
the  captain  wished,  as  he  understood  the  language.  5 

"  Tell  them  they  are  free/'  said  Yaughan. 

Then  there  was  a  yell  of  delight,  clinching  of  fists, 
leaping  and  dancing,  kissing  of  Nolan's  feet. 

"  Tell  them,"  said  Vaughan,  well  pleased,  "  that  I 
will  take  them  all  to  Cape  Palmas.',  io 

This  did  not  answer  so  well.  Cape  Palmas  was 
practically  as  far  from  the  homes  of  most  of  them  as 
New  Orleans  or  Rio  Janeiro  was ;  that  is,  they  would 
be  eternally  separated  from  home  there.  And  their 
interpreters,  as  we  could  understand,  instantly  said :  is 
"  Ah,  non  Palmas"  The  drops  stood  on  poor  Nolan's 
white  forehead  as  he  hushed  the  men  down  and  said : 
"He  says,  'Not  Palmas.'  He  says,  '  Take  us  home, 
take  us  to  our  own  country,  take  us  to  our  own  house, 
take  us  to  our  own  pickaninnies  and  our  own  women.'  20 
He  says  he  has  an  old  father  and  mother  who  will  die 
if  they  do  not  see  him.  And  this  one  says  he  left  his 
people  all  sick,  and  paddled  down  to  Fernando  to  beg 
the  white  doctor  to  come  and  help  them,  and  that 
these  caught  him  in  the  bay  just  in  sight  of  home,  25 
and  that  he  has  never  seen  anybody  from  home  since 
then.  And  this  one  says,"  choked  out  Nolan,  "that 
he  has  not  heard  a  word  from  his  home  in  six  months, 
while  he  has  been  locked  up  in  a  barracoon." 


-h8  312  8*~ 


As  quick  as  Vaughan  could  get  words,  he  said: 
"  Tell  them  yes,  yes,  yes ;  tell  them  they  shall  go  to 
the  mountains  of  the  Moon,  if  they  will.  If  I  sail  the 
schooner  through  the  Great  White  Desert,  they  shall 

5  go  home." 

And  after  some  fashion  Nolan  said  so.  And  then 
they  all  fell  to  kissing  him  again,  and  wanted  to  rub 
his  nose  with  theirs. 

But  he  could  not  stand  it  long ;  and  getting  Vaughan 

10  to  say  he  might  go  back,  he  beckoned  me  down  into 
our  boat.  As  we  lay  back  in  the  stern  sheets  and  the 
men  gave  way,  he  said  to  me :  "  Youngster,  let  that 
show  you  what  it  is  to  be  without  a  family,  without  a 
home,  and  without  a  country.     And  if  you  are  ever 

15  tempted  to  say  a  word  or  to  So  a  thing  that  shall  put 
a  bar  between  you  and  your  family,  your  home  and 
your  country,  pray  God  in  his  mercy  to  take  you  that 
instant  home  to  his  own  heaven.  Stick  by  your  family, 
boy ;  forget  you  have  a  self,  while  you  do  everything 

20  for  them.  Think  of  your  home,  boy ;  write  and  send, 
and  talk  about  it.  Let  it  be  nearer  and  nearer  to  your 
thought,  the  farther  you  have  to  travel  from  it;  and 
rush  back  to  it  when  you  are  free,  as  that  poor  black 
slave  is  doing  now.     And  for  your  country,  boy,"  and 

25  the  words  rattled  in  his  throat,  u  and  for  that  flag," 
and  he  pointed  to  the  ship,  "  never  dream  a  dream  but 
of  serving  her  as  she  bids  you,  though  the  service 
carry  you  through  a  thousand  hells.  No  matter  what 
happens  to  you,  no  matter  who  flatters  you  or  who 


-*8  313  9«- 

abuses  you,  never  look  at  another  flag,  never  let  a 
night  pass  but  you  pray  God  to  bless  that  flag.  Re- 
member, boy,  that  behind  all  these  men  you  have  to 
do  with,  behind  officers  and  government,  and  people 
even,  there  is  the  Country  Herself,  your  Country,  and  5 
that  you  belong  to  Her  as  you  belong  to  your  own 
mother.  Stand  by  Her,  boy,  as  you  would  stand  by 
your  mother." 

I  was  frightened  to  death  by  his  calm,  hard  passion ; 
but  I  blundered  out  that  I  would  by  all  that  was  holy,  io 
and  that  I  had  never  thought  of  doing  anything  else. 
He  hardly  seemed  to  hear  me ;  but  he  did,  almost  in 
a  whisper,  say :  u  Oh,  if  anybody  had  said  so  to  me 
when  I  was  of  your  age ! " 

Extract  from  a  letter  written  in  1863  :  —  is 

«  Dear  Fred  :  "  Levant>  2°  2'  S-  @  ^l0  ▼• 

"I  try  to  find  heart  and  life  to  tell  you  that  it  is  all  over  with 
dear  old  Nolan.  The  doctor  has  been  watching  him  very  care- 
fully, and  yesterday  morning  came  to  me  and  told  me  that  Nolan 
was  not  so  well,  and  he  said  he  should  like  to  see  me.  Well,  I  20 
went  in,  and  there,  to  be  sure,  the  poor  fellow  lay  in  his  berth, 
smiling  pleasantly  as  he  gave  me  his  hand,  but  looking  very 
frail.  I  could  not  help  a  glance  round,  which  showed  me  what 
a  little  shrine  he  had  made  of  the  box  he  was  lying  in.  The 
stars  and  stripes  were  triced  up  above  and  around  a  picture  of  25 
Washington,  and  he  had  painted  a  majestic  eagle,  with  light- 
nings blazing  from  his  beak,  and  his  foot  just  clasping  the  whole 
globe,  which  his  wings  overshadowed.     The  dear  old  boy  saw 


-»8  314  9*- 

my  glance  and  said  with  a  sad  smile :  'Here,  you  see,  I  have  a 
country ! ' 

"An  hour  after  I  had  left  him,  when  the  doctor  went  in 
gently,  he  found  Nolan  had  breathed  his  life  away  with  a  smile. 
5  "  We  looked  in  his  Bible,  and  there  was  a  slip  of  paper  at  the 
place  where  he  had  marked  the  text :  '  They  desire  a  country, 
even  a  heavenly  :  wherefore  God  is  not  ashamed  to  be  called 
their  God  :  for  He  hath  prepared  for  them  a  city.' 

"  On  this  slip  of  paper  he  had  written  :  <  Bury  me  in  the  sea ; 

10  it  has  been  my  home,  and  I  love  it.     But  will  not  some  one  set 

up  a  stone  for  my  memory  at  Fort  Adams,  or  at  Orleans,  that 

my  disgrace  may  not  be  more  than  I  ought  to  bear  ?     Say  on  it : 

In  Memory  of 
PHILIP   NOLAN, 

Lieutenant  in  the  Army  of  the  United  States. 

He  loved  his  country  as  no  other  man  has 

loved  her ;  but  no  man  deserved 

less  at  her  hands.' " 


-*S  315  9«~ 

LOVE    OF    COUNTRY. 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

Breathes  there  the  man,  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 

u  This  is  my  own,  my  native  land  ! " 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burned, 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned, 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand  ? 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well. 
For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell ; 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim ; 
Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 
The  wretch,  concentered  all  in  self, 
Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown, 
And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dust,  from  whence  he  sprung, 
Unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung. 

From  "  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel.11 


THE   HEROINE   OF  NANCY. 


In  the  year  1476,  Charles  the  Bold,  Duke  of  Bur- 
gundy, laid  siege  to  the  town  of  Nancy,  capital  of  the 
duchy  of  Lorraine.  In  the  absence  of  the  young  duke, 
Rene*  II.,  who  had  gone  to  raise  troops  among  the  ene- 
mies of  Charles,  the  town  and  its  little  garrison  were 


-»e  3i6  s«- 

left  in  charge  of  a  brave  and  patriotic  governor,  who 
had  an  only  daughter,  named  Telesile\  It  is  with  the 
noble  conduct  of  this  heroic  young  girl  that  our  story 
has  chiefly  to  do. 

5  Charles  the  Bold  —  who  ought  rather  to  have  been 
called  the  Rash,  or  the  Furious,  from  his  headlong  and 
violent  disposition  —  had  sought  to  erect  a  kingdom 
within  the  dominions  of  his  great  rival,  Louis  XI.  of 
France.     To  extend  his  power,  he  had  overrun  prov- 

10  inces,  which,  as  soon  as  his  strong  hand  was  withdrawn, 
took  the  first  opportunity  to  revolt  against  him.  Lor- 
raine was  one  of  these ;  and  he  now  appeared  before 
the  walls  of  Nancy,  resolved  to  punish  its  inhabitants, 
whom  he  regarded  as  rebels. 

15  But,  thanks  to  the  governor  and  his  heroic  daughter, 
the  city  held  out  bravely,  both  against  the  assaults  of 
his  soldiers,  and  the  threats  and  promises  with  which 
he  tried  to  induce  a  surrender.  While  the  governor 
directed  and  encouraged  the  defenders,  Telesile  inspired 

20  their  wives  and  daughters. 

"  Let  us  do,"  she  cried,  "  as  did  the  women  of  Beau- 
vais  when  this  same  cruel  Charles  laid  siege  to  their 
town.  Mothers  armed  themselves,  young  girls  seized 
whatever  weapons  they  could  find,  —  hatchets,  broken 

25  lances,  which  they  bound  together  with  their  hair; 
and  they  joined  their  sons  and  brothers  in  the  fight. 
They  drove  the  invader  from  their  walls ;  and  so  will 
we  defeat  and  drive  him  back !  " 

"  Put  no  trust  in  the  tyrant ! "   said   the   intrepid 


-»6  317  8«- 

governor,  addressing  the  people.  "  He  is  as  faithless  as 
he  is  cruel.  He  has  promised  to  spare  our  lives  and  our 
property  if  we  will  accept  him  as  our  ruler ;  but  be  not 
deceived.  Once  within  our  walls,  he  will  give  up  to 
massacre  and  pillage  the  city  that  has  cost  him  so  5 
dear. 

"  But  if  not  for  our  own  sakes,"  he  went  on,  "  then 
for  the  love  of  our  rightful  lord,  Duke  Rene,  let  us  con- 
tinue the  glorious  struggle.  Already  at  the  head  of  a 
brave  Swiss  army,  he  is  hastening  to  our  relief.  He  10 
will  soon  be  at  our  gates.  Let  us  hold  out  till  then ; 
or,  sooner  than  betray  our  trust,  let  us  fall  with  our 
defenses  and  be  buried  in  the  ruins  of  our  beloved  city ! " 

Thus  defended,  Nancy  held  out  until  Charles,  mad- 
dened to  fury  by  so  unexpected  and  so  prolonged  a  15 
resistance,  made  a  final,  desperate  attempt  to  carry  the 
town.  By  stratagem,  quite  as  much  as  by  force,  he 
succeeded  in  gaining  an  entrance  within  the  walls ; 
and  Nancy  was  at  his  mercy. 

In  the  flush  of  vengeance  and  success,  he  was  for  20 
putting  at  once  all  the  inhabitants  —  men,  women,  and 
children  —  to  the  sword.     A  young  maiden  was  brought 
before  him. 

"  Barbarian !  "  she  cried,  "  if  we  are  all  to  perish,  over 
whom  will  you  reign  ?  "  25 

"Who  are  you,  bold  girl!  that  dare  to  speak  to  me 
thus?"  said  the  astonished  Charles. 

"  Your  prisoner,  and  one  who  would  prevent  you  from 
adding  to  the  list  of  your  cruelties  !  " 


-»6  318  B* 

Her  beauty,  her  courage,  and  the  prophetic  tones  in 
which  she  spoke,  arrested  Charles's  fury. 

"  Give  up  to  me  your  governor,  whom  I  have  sworn 
to  punish,"  he  said,  "  and  a  portion  of  the  inhabitants 
5  shall  be  spared." 

But  the  governor  was   her  own  father,  —  for  the 

young  girl  was  no  other  than  Telesile.     Listening  to 

the  entreaties  of  his  friends,  he  had  assumed  the  dress 

of  a  private  citizen ;  and  all  loved  the  good  old  man 

10  too  well  to  point  him  out  to  the  tyrant. 

When  Te'lesile  sorrowfully  reported  to  her  father  the 
duke's  words,  he  smiled.  "  Be  of  good  cheer,  my  daugh- 
ter !  "  he  said.  "  I  will  see  the  Duke  Charles,  and  try 
what  I  can  do  to  persuade  him." 
15  When  brought  before  the  conqueror,  he  said,  "  There 
is  but  one  man  who  can  bring  the  governor  to  you. 
Swear  on  your  sword  to  spare  all  the  inhabitants  of  the 
town,  and  he  shall  be  given  up." 

"  That  will  I  not !  "  cried  the  angry  duke.     "  They 
20  have  braved  my  power  too  long ;  they  have  scorned  my 
offers;  they  have  laughed  at  my  threats;  now  woe  to 
the  people  of  Nancy !  " 

Then,  turning  to  his  officers,  he  commanded  that  every 
tenth  person  in  the  town  should  be  slain,  and  they  at 
25  once  gave  orders  for  the  decimation.  The  inhabitants, 
young  and  old,  women  and  infants,  were  assembled  in 
a  line  which  extended  through  the  principal  street  of  the 
city ;  while  soldiers  ransacked  the  houses,  in  order  to 
drive  forth  or  kill  any  that  might  remain  concealed. 


It  was  a  terrible  day  for  the  doomed  city.  Families 
clung  together,  friends  embraced  friends ;  some  weep- 
ing and  lamenting,  some  trying  to  comfort  and  sustain 
those  who  were  weaker  than  they,  others  calmly  await- 
ing their  fate.  5 

Then,  at  a  word  from  the  conqueror,  a  herald  went 
forth,  and,  waving  his  hand  before  the  gathered  multi- 
tude, began  to  count.  Each  on  whom  fell  the  fatal 
number  ten  was  to  be  given  at  once  to  the  sword.  But 
at  the  outset  a  difficulty  arose.  10 

Near  the  head  of  the  line  Tele'sile  and  the  governor 
were  placed ;  and  the  devoted  girl,  watching  the  move- 
ments of  the  herald,  and  hearing  him  count  aloud,  saw 
by  a  rapid  glance  that  the  dreaded  number  was  about 
to  fall  upon  her  father.  Quick  as  thought,  she  slipped  15 
behind  him  and  placed  herself  at  his  other  side.  Before 
the  old  man  was  aware  of  her  object,  the  doom  which 
should  have  been  his  had  fallen  upon  his  daughter.  He 
stood  for  a  moment  stupefied  with  astonishment  and 
grief,  then  called  out  to  the  herald,  "  Justice !  justice  !  "  20 

"  What  is  the  matter,  old  man  ?  "  demanded  the  her- 
ald, before  passing  on. 

"  The  count  is  wrong  !  there  is  a  mistake  !  Not  her ! " 
exclaimed  the  father,  as  the  executioners  were  laying 
hands  upon  Tele'sile  ;  "  take  me,  for  I  was  the  tenth  ! "  25 

"Not  so,"  said  Telesile  calmly.  "You  all  saw  that 
the  number  came  to  me." 

"  She  put  herself  in  my  way,  —  she  took  my  place,  — 
on  me  !  let  the  blow  fall  on  me  ! "  pleaded  the  old  man ; 


-»8  320  8«- 

while  she  as  earnestly  insisted  that  she  was  the  rightly 
chosen  victim. 

Amazed  to  see  two  persons  striving  for  the  privilege 
of  death  at  their  hands,  the  butchers  dragged  them 

5  before   Charles   the   Bold,  that   he   might  decide  the 
question  between  them. 

Charles  was  no  less  surprised  at  beholding  once  more 
the  maiden  and  the  old  man  who  had  already  appeared 
before  him,  and  at  learning  the  cause  of  their  strange 

10  dispute ;  for  he  knew  not  yet  that  they  were  parent  and 
child.  Notwithstanding  his  violent  disposition,  the  con- 
queror had  a  heart  which  pity  could  sometimes  touch, 
and  he  was  powerfully  moved  by  the  sight  that  met 
his  eyes. 

15  u  I  pray  you  hear  me  !  "  cried  Telesile,  throwing  her- 
self at  his  feet.  "  I  am  a  simple  maiden  ;  my  life  is  of 
no  account ;  then  let  me  die,  my  lord  duke  !  But  spare, 
oh,  spare  him,  the  best,  the  noblest  of  men,  whose  life 
is  useful  to  all  our  unhappy  people !  " 

20  "  Do  not  listen  to  her ! "  exclaimed  the  old  man, 
almost  too  much  affected  to  speak ;  "  or  if  you  do,  let 
her  own  words  confute  her  argument.  You  behold  her 
courage,  her  piety,  her  self-sacrifice ;  and  I  see  you  are 
touched !     You  will  not,  you  cannot,  destroy  so  precious 

25  a  life !  It  is  I  who  am  now  worthless  to  my  people. 
My  days  are  almost  spent.  Even  if  you  spare  me,  I 
have  but  a  little  while  to  live." 

Then  Telesile,  perceiving  the  eyes  of  Charles  bent 
upon  her  with  a  look  of  mingled  admiration  and  pity, 


-»8  321    &- 

said  :  "  Do  not  think  there  is  anything  wonderful  in  my 
conduct;  I  do  but  my  simple  duty;  I  plead  for  my 
father's  life !  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  her  father,"  said  the  old  man,  moved  by 
a  sudden  determination.     "And  I  am  something  more.    5 
My  lord  duke,  behold  the  man  on  whom  you  have  sworn 
to  have  revenge.     I  am  he  who  defended  the  city  so 
long  against  you.     Now  let  me  die  !  " 

At  this  a  multitude  of  people  broke  from  the  line  in 
which  they  had  been  ranged,  and,  surrounding  the  gov-  10 
ernor  and  his  daughter,  made  a  rampart  of  their  bodies 
about  them,  exclaiming,  "  Let  us  die  for  him !     We  will 
die  for  our  good  governor !  " 

All  the  better  part  of  the  rude  Charles's  nature  was 
roused.  Tears  were  in  his  own  eyes,  his  voice  was  15 
shaken  by  emotion.  "  Neither  shall  die !  "  he  cried. 
"  Old  man !  fair  maiden !  I  spare  your  lives  and,  for 
your  sake,  the  lives  of  all  these  people.  Nay,  do  not 
thank  me  ;  for  I  have  gained  in  this  interview  a  knowl- 
edge which  I  could  never  have  acquired  through  years  20 
of  conquest  —  that  human  love  is  greater  than  kingly 
power,  and  that  mercy  is  sweeter  than  vengeance ! " 

Well  would  it  have  been  for  the  rash  Charles  could 
he  have  gained  that  knowledge  earlier,  or  have  shaped 
his  future  life  by  it  even  then.  Still  fired  by  ambition  25 
and  love  of  power,  he  went  forth  to  fight  Duke  Rene', 
who  now  appeared  with  an  army  to  relieve  his  fair 
city  of  Nancy.  A  battle  ensued,  in  which  Charles  was 
defeated   and   slain;    and   in   the   midst  of   joy  and 


-ifi  322  Qt- 

thanksgiving,  the  rightful  duke  entered  and  once  more 
took  possession  of  the  town. 

Warmly  as  he  was  welcomed,  there  were  two  who 

shared  with  him  the  honors  of  that  happy  day  —  the 

5  old  man  who  had  defended  Nancy  so  long  and  well, 

and  the  young  girl  whose  heroic  conduct  had  saved  from 

massacre  one-tenth  of  all  its  inhabitants. 


HUMANITY. 
WILLIAM  COWPER. 


I  would  not  enter  on  my  list  of  friends 

(Though  graced  with  polished  manners  and  fine  sense, 

Yet  wanting  sensibility)  the  man 

Who  needlessly  sets  foot  upon  a  worm. 

An  inadvertent  step  may  crush  the  snail 

That  crawls  at  evening  in  the  public  path ; 

But  he  that  has  humanity,  forewarned, 

Will  tread  aside,  and  let  the  reptile  live. 


-»B  323  fr> 

AN    ICEBERG. 
RICHARD  H.  DANA,  Jr. 

Richard  Henry  Dana,  Jr.,  was  born  in  Cambridge,  Mass., 
in  1815,  and  died  in  1882. 

He  was  educated  at  Harvard  College.  During  his  course  there 
his  eyesight  became  affected,  and  he  was  obliged  to  leave  college 
for  a  time.  5 

Being  advised  to  take  a  sea  voyage,  he  shipped  for  California 
and  spent  two  years  as  a  common  sailor.  On  his  return  he  pub- 
lished an  account  of  his  adventures,  entitled  "  Two  Years  before 
the  Mast."  This  book  became  popular  both  in  England  and 
America.     It  is  still  widely  read.  10 

Mr.  Dana  was  admitted  to  the  bar  when  he  was  twenty-five 
years  old,  and  always  held  a  prominent  position  as  a  lawyer  and 
writer. 

This  day  the  sun  rose  fair,  but  it  ran  too  low  in  the 
heavens  to  give  any  heat,  or  thaw  out  our  sails  and  15 
rigging ;  yet  the  sight  of  it  was  pleasant,  and  we  had 
a  steady  "  reef-topsail  breeze  "  from  the  westward.    The 
atmosphere,  which  had  previously  been  clear  and  cold, 
for  the  last  few  hours  grew  damp  and  had  a  disagree- 
able, wet  chilliness  in  it ;  and  the  man  who  came  from  20 
the  wheel  said  he  heard  the  captain  tell  "  the  passen- 
ger "  that  the  thermometer  had  fallen  several  degrees 
since  morning,  which  he  could  not  account  for  in  any 
other  way  than  by  supposing  that  there  must  be  ice 
near  us,  though  such  a  thing  was  rarely  heard  of  in  25 
this  latitude  at  this  season  of  the  year. 


hQ  324  &- 

At  twelve  o'clock  we  went  below,  and  had  just  got 
through  dinner  when  the  cook  put  his  head  down  the 
scuttle  and  told  us  to  come  on  deck  and  see  the  finest 
sight  that  we  had  ever  seen.     "  Where  away,  doctor?" 

5  asked  the  first  man  who  was  up.  "  On  the  larboard 
bow."  And  there  lay,  floating  in  the  ocean,  several 
miles  off,  an  immense,  irregular  mass,  its  top  and 
points  covered  with  snow,  and  its  center  of  a  deep 
indigo  color.     This  was  an  iceberg,  and  of  the  largest 

10  size,  as  one  of  our  men  said  who  had  been  in  the  North- 
ern Ocean.  As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  the  sea  in 
every  direction  was  of  a  deep  blue  color,  the  waves  run- 
ning high  and  fresh,  and  sparkling  in  the  light ;  and  in 
the  midst  lay  this  immense  mountain-island,  its  cavities 

15  and  valleys  thrown  into  deep  shade,  and  its  points  and 
pinnacles  glittering  in  the  sun. 

All  hands  were  soon  on  deck  looking  at  it,  and  admir- 
ing, in  various  ways,  its  beauty  and  grandeur.  But  no 
description  can  give  any  idea  of  the  strangeness,  splen- 

20  dor,  and  really  the  sublimity  of  the  sight.  Its  great 
size,  —  for  it  must  have  been  from  two  to  three  miles 
in  circumference,  and  several  hundred  feet  in  height,  — 
its  slow  motion,  as  its  base  rose  and  sank  in  the  water 
and  its  high  points  nodded  against  the  clouds ;  the  dash- 

25  ing  of  the  waves  upon  it,  which,  breaking  high  with 
foam,  lined  its  base  with  a  white  crust ;  and  the  thun- 
dering sound  of  the  cracking  of  the  mass,  and  the  break- 
ing and  tumbling  down  of  huge  pieces,  together  with  its 
nearness  and  approach,  which  added  to  a  slight  element 


-*8  325  &* 

of  fear,  all  combined  to  give  to  it  the  character  of  true 
sublimity. 

The  main  body  of  the  mass  was,  as  I  have  said,  of 
an  indigo  color,  its  base  crusted  with  foam,  and,  as  it 
grew  thin  and  transparent  towards  the  edges  and  top,  5 
its  color  shaded  off  from  a  deep  blue  to  the  whiteness 
of  snow.  It  seemed  to  be  drifting  slowly  towards  the 
north,  so  that  we  kept  away  and  avoided  it.  It  was  in 
sight  all  the  afternoon,  and  when  we  got  to  leeward  of 
it  the  wind  died  away,  so  that  we  lay  to  quite  near  it  10 
for  a  greater  part  of  the  night. 

Unfortunately  there  was  no  moon ;  but  it  was  a  clear 
night,  and  we  could  plainly  mark  the  long,  regular  heav- 
ing of  the  stupendous  mass,  as  its  edges  moved  slowly 
against  the  stars,  now  revealing  them  and  now  shutting  15 
them  in.  Several  times  in  our  watch  loud  cracks  were 
heard,  which  sounded  as  though  they  must  have  run 
through  the  whole  length  of  the  iceberg,  and  several 
pieces  fell  down  with  a  thundering  crash,  plunging 
heavily  into  the  sea.  Towards  morning  a  strong  20 
breeze  sprang  up,  and  we  filled  away,  and  left  it 
astern,  and  at  daylight  it  was  out  of  sight. 

From  "  Two  Years  before  the  Mast." 


-»8  326  8<- 


JOHN    MILTON. 

John  Milton  was  born  in  1608,  in  a  house  called 
"The  Spread  Eagle,"  in  the  very  heart  of  old  London. 
His  father,  also  John  Milton,  was  a  scrivener  or  law- 
yer, and  was  well  known  as  a  musical  composer.     He 

had  received  a  good 
education  and  took 
great  pains  with  his 
son,  employing  pri- 
vate tutors  for  him, 
and  afterwards  send- 
ing him  to  St.  Paul's 
school,  where  he  was 
for  some  time  a  day 
scholar. 

The    boy  was    as 
desirous  of  an  edu- 
cation as  his  father 
could  wish,  and  be- 
came so  interested  in  his  books  that  he  would  read  and 
20  study  until  after  midnight. 

His  compositions  and  verses  attracted  attention  dur- 
ing his  early  boyhood.  Before  he  was  sixteen  years  old 
he  had  written  two  of  the  Psalms  in  verse. 

While  at  St.  Paul's  he  formed   a  close  friendship 
26  with  Charles  Diodati,  the  son  of  an  exiled  Italian  phy- 
sician.    This  friendship  aroused   Milton's   interest   in 
Italian  literature. 


-»8  327  8»- 

Milton  entered  Christ's  College,  Cambridge,  when  he 
was  seventeen  years  old,  remaining  there  seven  years. 
The  handsome,  graceful  young  man,  with  his  scorn  of 
all  that  lacked  refinement,  was  not  popular  during  the 
first  years  of  his  college  course,  and  the  students  called  5 
him  "  The  Lady."  They  soon  learned  to  honor  his  high 
character  and  brilliant  scholarship.  He  was  regarded 
as  the  best  student  of  the  university. 

He  had  at  first  intended  to  become  a  clergyman,  but 
gave  up  this  plan  and  was  uncertain  as  to  what  he  10 
should  do.  His  father  had  taken  a  house  at  Horton, 
about  twenty  miles  from  London,  and,  after  leaving 
Cambridge,  Milton  spent  five  years  at  home,  studying 
Greek  and  Latin,  taking  solitary  walks,  and  writing 
wonderful  verses.  He  also  continued  the  study  of  15 
music  under  his  father's  teaching,  and  took  great 
delight  in  it.  Some  of  his  most  famous  poems  were 
written  during  those  years  at  Horton. 

Milton  had  long  desired  to  travel,  and  after  the  death 
of  his  mother  he  found  his  home  so  lonely  that  he  per-  20 
suaded  his  father  to  allow  him  to  visit  France,  Italy, 
and  Switzerland.     This  journey  occupied  nearly  sixteen 
months,  and  was  a  season  of  delight  to  the  young  poet, 
who,  by  reading,  had  become  familiar  with  these  old 
cities   and   the   famous   men   who   had   walked   their  25 
streets.     He  also  became  acquainted  with  many  learned 
men  and  persons  of  rank,  and  was  received  everywhere 
with  courteous  attention.     During  his  stay  at  Florence     . 
he  met  the  astronomer,  Galileo,  then  old  and  blind,  and 


-*6  328  &- 

recently  released  from  prison,  where  he  had  been  con- 
fined on  account  of  his  theories  and  discoveries. 

The  house  at  Horton  was  occupied  but  a  short  time 
after  Milton's  return.     His  father  went  to  live  with 

5  his  son  Christopher,  and  the  poet  went  to  London.  He 
hired  a  pretty  "  garden-house,"  large  enough  for  himself 
and  his  books,  and  lived  there  with  his  two  nephews, 
of  whose  education  he  took  charge.  He  was  fond  of 
teaching,  and  gradually  several  other  boys  joined  the 

10  class,  and  his  house  became  a  small  private  school. 

In  the  spring  of  his  thirty-fifth  year  Milton  went  to 
Oxford  and  returned  a  month  later,  bringing  home  a 
bride  and  a  party  of  her  relatives.  After  several  days 
spent  in  feasting,  the  young  wife  of  seventeen  summers 

15  was  left  alone  with  her  husband,  who  became  once  more 
absorbed  in  his  books.  Mrs.  Milton  cared  nothing  for 
literature,  and  before  the  summer  was  over  she  went  to 
visit  her  father,  promising  to  return  during  September. 
She  refused  to  go  home  at  the  appointed  time  and 

20  remained  away  for  two  years. 

During  the  meantime  Milton's  father  had  come  to 
live  with  him,  and  the  number  of  his  pupils  had  so 
increased  that  he  had  taken  a  larger  house.  After  the 
death  of  his  father,  Milton  decided  to  devote  more  time 

25  to  writing,  so  he  dismissed  his  pupils  and  removed  to  a 
smaller  house.  He  became  deeply  interested  in  politics, 
writing  some  bold  and  daring  essays  on  the  questions  of 
the  day.  When  he  was  forty  years  old  he  was  appointed 
Secretary  of  Foreign  Tongues,  with  a  large  salary  and 


•^8  329  8«- 


MILTON    DICTATING    "PARADISE    LOST." 

a  residence  in  Whitehall  Palace  in  Scotland  Yard.  His 
eyesight  had  begun  to  fail,  and  three  years  after  accept- 
ing this  office  he  became  blind.  He  continued,  however, 
to  attend  to  his  duties  with  the  aid  of  two  assistants. 
Shortly  after  he  lost  his  sight  his  wife  died,  leaving  5 
three  little  daughters.  Four  years  later  he  married  a 
second  time,  but  this  wife  lived  but  a  short  time. 

In  1660,  when  Milton  was  fifty-two  years  old,  there 
came  another  change  in  the  government,  and  Milton's 
life  was  in  danger.  He  was  obliged  to  hide  for  several  10 
months.  Life  seemed  very  gloomy  to  the  blind  man. 
His  friends  were  dead  or  in  exile,  he  had  lost  a  large 
share  of  his  property,  and  his  work  during  the  last 
twenty  years  seemed  thrown  away. 


-*8  330  8«- 

Many  years  before,  Milton  had  planned  to  write  his 
great  poem  of  "  Paradise  Lost."     He  now  devoted  him- 
self to  this  work,  dictating  it  to  Dorothy,  his  youngest 
and  favorite  child,  who  bore  some  resemblance  to  her 
5  father,  and  who  was  most  in  sympathy  with  him. 

Milton  married  for  the  third  time  during  his  fifty- 
fifth  year.  This  wife  proved  a  blessing  to  him.  She 
was  a  lover  of  music,  and  sang  to  him  while  he  accom- 
panied her  upon  the  organ  or  bass  viol.     They  walked 

10  together  and  talked  about  his  favorite  books  and  men  of 
learning.  His  poem  "  Paradise  Lost "  was  finished  dur- 
ing the  next  two  years.  He  loaned  a  copy  to  a  friend, 
who  suggested  his  writing  "  Paradise  Regained,"  which 
was  published  about  four  years  later. 

is  These  poems  rank  as  the  grandest  works  of  one  of 
the  greatest  minds  that  the  world  has  ever  known. 
The  poet's  humble  home  became  an  attraction  for 
many  visitors,  who  wished  to  look  upon  and  talk  with 
the  man  whose  genius  was  so  great. 

20       Milton  died  in  1674. 


-£  331  8«- 

DEATH    OF    SAMSON. 
JOHN  MILTON. 
Scene — In  Gaza. 

Occasions  drew  me  early  to  this  city ; 
And,  as  the  gates  I  entered  with  sunrise, 
The  morning  trumpets  festival  proclaimed 
Through  each  high  street :  little  I  had  dispatched, 
When  all  abroad  was  rumored  that  this  day 
Samson  should  be  brought  forth,  to  show  the  people 
Proof  of  his  mighty  strength  in  feats  and  games; 
I  sorrowed  at  his  captive  state,  but  minded 
Not  to  be  absent  at  that  spectacle. 

The  building  was  a  spacious  theater 
Half-round,  on  two  main  pillars  vaulted  high, 
With  seats,  where  all  the  lords,  and  each  degree 
Of  sort,  might  sit  in  order  to  behold ; 
The  other  side  was  open,  where  the  throng 
On  banks  and  scaffolds  under  sky  might  stand ; 
I  among  these,  aloof,  obscurely  stood. 

The  feast  and  noon  grew  high,  and  sacrifice 

Had  filled  their  hearts  with  mirth,  high  cheer,  and  wine, 

When  to  their  sports  they  turned.     Immediately 

Was  Samson  as  a  public  servant  brought, 

In  their  state  livery  clad ;  before  him  pipes 

And  timbrels,  on  each  side  went  armed  guards, 


Both  horse  and  foot ;  before  him  and  behind 
Archers  and  slingers,  cataphracts  and  spears. 
At  sight  of  him  the  people  with  a  shout 
Rifted  the  air,  clamoring  their  god  with  praise, 
Who  had  made  their  dreadful  enemy  their  thralL 

He,  patient,  but  undaunted,  where  they  led  him. 
Came  to  the  place ;  and  what  was  set  before  him, 
Which  without  help  of  eye  might  be  essayed, 
To  heave,  pull,  draw,  or  break,  he  still  performed. 
All  with  incredible,  stupendous  force, 
None  daring  to  appear  antagonist. 

At  length,  for  intermission  sake,  they  led  him 
Between  the  pillars;  he  his  guide  requested, 
As  over-tired,  to  let  him  lean  awhile 
With  both  his  arms  on  those  two  massy  pillars, 
That  to  the  arched  roof  gave  main  support. 

He,  unsuspicious,  led  him ;  which  when  Samson 

Felt  in  his  arms,  with  head  awhile  inclined, 

And  eyes  fast  fixed  he  stood,  as  one  who  prayed, 

Or  some  great  matter  in  his  mind  revolved ; 

At  last,  with  head  erect,  thus  cried  aloud  : 

"  Hitherto,  lords,  what  your  commands  imposed 

I  have  performed,  as  reason  was,  obeying, 

Not  without  wonder  or  delight  beheld  : 

Now,  of  my  own  accord,  such  other  trial 

I  mean  to  show  you  of  my  strength,  yet  greater, 

As  with  amaze  shall  strike  all  who  behold." 


-46  333  &- 

This  uttered,  straining  all  his  nerves,  he  bowed ; 
As  with  the  force  of  winds  and  waters  pent, 
When  mountains  tremble,  those  two  massy  pillars 
With  horrible  convulsion  to  and  fro 
He  tugged,  he  shook,  till  down  they  came,  and  drew 
The  whole  roof  after  them,  with  burst  of  thunder, 
Upon  the  heads  of  all  who  sat  beneath,  — 
Lords,  ladies,  captains,  counselors,  or  priests, 
Their  choice  nobility  and  flower,  not  only 
Of  this,  but  each  Philistian  city  round, 
Met  from  all  parts  to  solemnize  this  feast. 
Samson,  with  these  immixed,  inevitably 
Pulled  down  the  same  destruction  on  himself ; 
The  vulgar  only  'scaped  who  stood  without. 

From  " Samson  Agonistes.v 


MAY    MORNING. 

JOHN  MILTON. 


Now  the  bright  morning  star,  Day's  harbinger, 
Comes  dancing  from  the  east,  and  leads  with  her 
The  flowery  May,  who  from  her  green  lap  throws 
The  yellow  cowslip  and  the  pale  primrose. 

Hail,  bounteous  May,  that  dost  inspire 

Mirth,  and  youth,  and  warm  desire ! 

Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dressing ; 

Hill  and  dale  doth  boast  thy  blessing. 
Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  song, 
And  welcome  thee,  and  wish  thee  long. 


•<  334  9«- 

ON   HIS   BLINDNESS. 

JOHN  MILTON. 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent, 

Ere  half  my  days,  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 

To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 
My  true  account,  lest  He  returning  chide ; 
"Doth  God  exact  day-labor,  light  denied?" 
I  fondly  ask ;  but  Patience,  to  prevent 

That  murmur,  soon  replies,  "  God  doth  not  need 
Either  man's  work  or  his  own  gifts ;  who  best 
Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best ;  his  state 

Is  kingly :  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed, 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest ; 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 


How  charming  is  divine  philosophy ! 

Not  harsh  and  crabbed,  as  dull  fools,  suppose, 

But  musical  as  is  Apollo's  lute, 

And  a  perpetual  feast  of  nectared  sweets, 

Where  no  crude  surfeit  reigns. 


-»8  335  8*- 

A  CHEERFUL    SPIRIT. 

SIR  JOHN  LUBBOCK. 

Sir  John  Lubbock  was  born  in  England  in  1834.  He  is  a 
banker  and  has  introduced  great  improvements  into  banking  and 
custom-house  business. 

He  has  written  a  number  of  books  on  literary  and  scientific 
subjects.  •  5 

Cheerfulness  is  a  great  moral  tonic.  As  sunshine 
brings  out  the  flowers  and  ripens  the  fruit,  so  does  cheer- 
fulness —  the  feeling  of  freedom  and  life  —  develop  in 
us  all  the  seeds  of  good  —  all  that  is  best  in  us. 

Cheerfulness  is  a  duty  we  owe  to  others.  There  is  10 
an  old  tradition  that  a  cup  of  gold  is  to  be  found  wher- 
ever a  rainbow  touches  the  earth,  and  there  are  some 
people  whose  smile,  the  sound  of  whose  voice,  whose 
very  presence  seems  like  a  ray  of  sunshine,  to  turn 
everything  they  touch  into  gold.  15 

Men  never  break  down  as  long  as  they  can  keep 
cheerful.  "A  merry  heart  is  a  continual  feast"  to 
others  besides  itself.  The  shadow  of  Florence  Night- 
ingale cured  more  than  her  medicines ;  and  if  we  share 
the  burdens  of  others,  we  lighten  our  own.  20 

All  wish,  but  few  know  how,  to  enjoy  themselves. 
They  do  not  realize  the  dignity  and  delight  of  life. 

Do  not  magnify  small  troubles  into  great  trials.     We 
often  fancy  we  are  mortally  wounded  when  we  are  but 
scratched.     A  surgeon,  says  Fuller,  "  sent  for  to  cure  a  25 
slight  wound,  sent  off  in  a  great  hurry  for  a  plaster. 


-»6  336  8«~ 

<Why,'  said  the  gentleman,  ^  is  the  hurt  then  so  dan- 
gerous ? '  '  No,'  said  the  surgeon, '  but  if  the  messenger 
returns  not  in  post-haste,  it  will  cure  itself.' '  Time 
cures  sorrow  as  well  as  wounds. 

5  "A  cultivated  mind,  I  do  not  mean  that  of  a  philoso- 
pher, but  any  mind  to  which  the  fountains  of  knowledge 
have  been  opened,  and  which  has  been  taught  in  any 
tolerable  degree  to  exercise  its  faculties,  will  find  sources 
of  inexhaustible  interest  in  all  that  surrounds  it ;  in  the 

10  objects  of  Nature,  the  achievements  of  Art,  the  imagi- 
nation of  Poetry,  the  incidents  of  History,  the  ways  of 
Mankind,  past  and  present,  and  their  prospects  in  the 

future . "  From  "The  Pleasures  of  Life. ' ' 


THE    RELIEF    OF    LUCKNOW. 

For  eighty  days  the  fort  of  Lucknow  had  held  out 
is  against  fifty  thousand  rebel  Sepoys.  Disease,  famine, 
and  the  fire  of  the  enemy  had  thinned  the  ranks  of  the 
little  garrison  until  but  twenty  remained.  Day  after 
day  the  garrison  had  hoped  for  relief,  but  now  hope 
itself  had  died  away.  The  Sepoys,  grown  desperate 
20  by  repulse,  had  decided  to  overwhelm  the  fort  with 
their  whole  force.  The  engineers  had  said  that  within 
a  few  hours  all  would  be  over,  and  not  a  soul  within 
Lucknow  but  was  prepared  for  the  worst. 

A  poor  Scotch  girl,  Jessie  Brown,  had  been  in  a 
26  state  of  excitement  all  through  the  siege,  and  had 


-*S  337  8«- 

f alien  away  visibly  within  the  last  few  days.  A  con- 
stant fever  consumed  her,  and  her  mind  wandered, 
especially  on  that  day,  when,  as  she  said,  she  was 
"  lukin  far  awa,  far  awa  upon  the  craigs  of  Duncleuch 
as  in  the  days  of  auld  lang  syne.,'  At  last,  overcome  5 
with  fatigue,  she  sank  on  the  ground  too  tired  to  wait. 

As  the  Sepoys  moved  on  to  the  attack,  the  women, 
remembering  the  horrible  scenes  of  Cawnpore,  besought 
the  men  to  save  them  from  a  fate  worse  than  death, 
by  killing  them  with  a  volley  from  their  guns.  The  10 
soldiers  for  the  last  time  looked  down  the  road  whence 
the  long-looked-for  relief  must  come ;  but  they  saw  no 
signs  of  Havelock  and  his  troops.  In  despair  they 
loaded  their  guns  and  aimed  them  at  the  waiting  group ; 
but  suddenly  all  are  startled  by  a  wild,  unearthly  15 
shriek  from  the  sleeping  Scotch  girl.  Starting  up- 
right, her  arms  raised,  and  her  head  bent  forward  in 
the  attitude  of  listening,  with  a  look  of  intense  delight 
breaking  over  her  countenance,  she  exclaimed  :  "  Dinna 
ye  hear  it  ?  Dinna  ye  hear  it  ?  Ay,  I  'm  no  dreamin' ;  20 
it 's  the  slogan  0'  the  Highlanders !  We  're  saved, 
we  're  saved !  "  Then,  flinging  herself  upon  her  knees, 
she  thanked  God  with  passionate  fervor. 

The  soldiers  were  utterly  bewildered ;  their  English 
ears  heard  only  the  roar  of  artillery,  and  they  thought  25 
poor  Jessie  still  raving.  But  she  darted  to  the  bat- 
teries, crying  incessantly  to  the  men :  "  Courage ! 
Hark  to  the  slogan  —  to  the  Macgregor,  the  grandest 
of  them  a' !     Here 's  help  at  last !  "     For  a  moment 


-•8  338  8«- 

every  soul  listened  in  intense  anxiety.  Gradually,  how- 
ever, there  was  a  murmur  of  bitter  disappointment, 
and  the  wailing  of  the  women  began  anew  as  the 
colonel    shook    his    head.     Their   dull    Lowland   ears 

5  heard  nothing  but  the  rattle  of  the  musketry. 

A  few  moments  more  of  this  deathlike  suspense,  of 
this  agonizing  hope,  and  Jessie,  who  had  again  sunk  to 
the  ground,  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  cried  in  a  voice 
so  clear  and  piercing  that  it  was  heard  along  the  whole 

10  line :  "  Will  ye  no  believe  it  noo  ?  The  slogan  has 
ceased,  indeed,  but  the  Campbells  are  comin'.  D'ye 
hear?    D'ye  hear?" 

At  that  moment  they  seem  to  hear  the  voice  of  God 
in  the  distance,  as  the  bagpipes  of  the  Highlanders 

15  brought  tidings  of  deliverance ;  for  now  there  was  no 
longer  any  doubt  of  their  coming.  That  shrill,  pene- 
trating, ceaseless  sound  which  rose  above  all  other 
sounds  could  come  neither  from  the  advance  of  the 
enemy  nor  from  the  work  of  the  sappers. 

20  Yes !  It  was  indeed  the  blast  of  the  Scottish  bag- 
pipes, now  shrill  and  harsh  as  the  threatening  venge- 
ance of  the  foe,  then  in  softer  tones  seeming  to  promise 
succor  to  their  friends  in  need.  Never,  surely,  was 
there  such  a  scene  as  that  which   followed.     Not  a 

25  heart  in  the  residency  of  Lucknow  but  bowed  itself 
before  God.  All  by  one  simultaneous  impulse  fell 
upon  their  knees,  and  nothing  was  heard  save  burst- 
ing sobs  and  the  murmured  voice  of  prayer. 


-*6  339  9»- 

THE    BIVOUAC    OF    THE    DEAD. 

THEODORE   O'HARA. 

The  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 

The  soldier's  last  tattoo ; 
No  more  on  life's  parade  shall  meet 

That  brave  and  fallen  few. 
On  Fame's  eternal  camping-ground 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread, 
And  glory  guards  with  solemn  round, 

The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 

No  rumor  of  the  foe's  advance 

Now  swells  upon  the  wind  ; 
No  troubled  thought  at  midnight  haunts 

Of  loved  ones  left  behind ; 
No  vision  of  the  morrow's  strife 

The  warrior's  dream  alarms ; 
No  braying  horn  or  screaming  fife 

At  dawn  shall  call  to  arms. 

The  neighing  troop,  the  flashing  blade, 

The  bugle's  stirring  blast, 
The  charge,  the  dreadful  cannonade, 

The  din  and  shout,  are  past. 
Nor  war's  wild  note,  nor  glory's  peal, 

Shall  thrill  with  fierce  delight 
Those  breasts  that  nevermore  may  feel 

The  rapture  of  the  fight. 


-*8  340  8*- 

Like  the  fierce  northern  hurricane 

That  sweeps  his  great  plateau, 
Flushed  with  the  triumph  yet  to  gain, 

Comes  down  the  serried  foe. 
Who  heard  the  thunder  of  the  fray 

Break  o'er  the  field  beneath, 
Knew  well  the  watchword  of  that  day 

Was  "  Victory  or  Death ! " 

Sons  of  the  dark  and  bloody  ground, 

Ye  must  not  slumber  there, 
Where  stranger  steps  and  tongues  resound 

Along  the  heedless  air ! 
Your  own  proud  land's  heroic  soil 

Shall  be  your  fitter  grave  : 
She  claims  from  war  its  richest  spoil,  — 

The  ashes  of  her  brave. 

Thus,  'neath  their  parent  turf  they  rest, 

Far  from  the  gory  field, 
Borne  to  a  Spartan  mother's  breast 

On  many  a  bloody  shield. 
The  sunshine  of  their  native  sky 

Smiles  sadly  on  them  here, 
And  kindred  eyes  and  hearts  watch  by 

The  heroes'  sepulcher. 

Rest  on,  embalmed  and  sainted  dead ! 
Dear  as  the  blood  ye  gave, 


->6  341    g«- 

No  impious  footstep  here  shall  tread 

The  herbage  of  your  grave ; 
Nor  shall  jour  glory  be  forgot 

While  Fame  her  record  keeps, 
Or  Honor  points  the  hallowed  spot 

Where  Valor  proudly  sleeps. 

Yon  marble  minstrel's  voiceless  stone 

In  deathless  song  shall  tell, 
When  many  a  vanished  year  hath  flown, 

The  story  how  ye  fell. 
Nor  wreck,  nor  change,  nor  winter's  blightP 

Nor  Time's  remorseless  doom, 
Can  dim  one  ray  of  holy  light 

That  gilds  your  glorious  tomb. 


-*6  342  8*~ 


ELEGY    WRITTEN    IN    A    COUNTRY    CHURCH-YARD. 


THOMAS  GRAY. 


Thomas  Gray  was  born   in    London   in  1716.      His  father 

neglected   his  family,    and   the   boy   was   dependent   upon  his 

mother,  who  worked  hard  to  provide  her  son  with  an  education. 

Through  the  influence  of  an  uncle,  who  was  an  assistant  at 

5  Eton,  the  future  poet  was  educated  at  that  famous  school,  and 

at  Cambridge.  He  spent  his  vacations 
at  his  uncle's  house.  He  cared  nothing 
for  the  sports  of  the  times,  but  loved 
nature.  He  would  sit  for  hours  in  a 
quiet  nook,  surrounded  by  hills  and 
cliffs,  reading,  dreaming,  and  watching 
the  gambols  of  the  hares  and  squirrels. 
Gray  was  twenty -two  years  old 
when  he  left  Cambridge.  He  spent 
the  following  six  months  at  home,  and 
then  accepted  the  invitation  of  one  of 
his  college  friends  to  accompany  him, 
free  of  expense,  on  a  tour  through 
France  and  Italy.  His  notes  and  letters  written  during  this 
20  trip  show  remarkable  taste  and  learning. 

After  two  and  a  half  years  of  travel  he  returned  to  England. 
His  father  died  during  the  next  fall,  after  wasting  his  fortune. 
Gray  began  the  study  of  law,  but  had  not  the  means  to  finish  the 
course.  He  began  to  devote  his  time  to  writing,  left  London, 
25  where  he  had  spent  the  winter,  and  went  with  his  mother  to 
visit  an  uncle  who  lived  in  a  country  hamlet  called  Stoke  Poges. 
In  this  quiet  village  he  wrote  his  "  Ode  on  the  Spring,"  "  Ode 
on  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College,"  and  began  the  "  Elegy 
Written  in  a  Country  Church- Yard." 
30  The  "  Elegy  "  is  one  of  the  most  celebrated  poems  ever  written. 
It  was  begun  when  Gray  was  twenty-six  years  old,  but  he  did  not 


-*8  343  8*- 

finish  it  until  eight  years  later.     Its  fame  spread  over  the  world, 
and  it  still  holds  its  rank  as  the  most  perfect  of  English  poems. 

The  poet  lived  at  Cambridge,  where  he  devoted  his  time  to 
study.     The  "  Elegy  "  and  a  later  work,  "  The  Bard,"  placed  him 
at  the  head  of  English  poets.     He  was  offered  the  office  of  poet    5 
laureate,  which  he  refused. 

In  1768  Gray  accepted  the  chair  of  Modern  History  and  Lan- 
guages at  Cambridge. 

The  last  years  of  the  poet's  life  were  spent  very  quietly.     He 
avoided   society  and  was  rarely  seen   in  public.     He  died  in  10 
London  in  1771. 


The  Curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  wind  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 

The  plowman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds ; 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tow'r 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such,  as  wand'ring  near  her  secret  bow'r, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mould'ring  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 

The  rude  Forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 


Hg  344  8«- 


3^< 


p^^r 


'%...-••  ® 


CHURCH    AT   STOKE    POGES. 


The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  Morn, 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care : 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke; 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield  ! 

How  bow'd  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke ! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure ; 


-*8  345   8«- 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  pow'r, 

And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 

Awaits  alike  th'  inevitable  hour. 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  Proud,  impute  to  These  the  fault, 
If  Mem'ry  o'er  their  Tomb  no  Trophies  raise, 

Where  thro'  the  long-drawn  isle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 
Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 

Or  Flatt'ry  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  Death  ? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire ; 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  sway'd, 
Or  wak'd  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page 
Kich  with  the  spoils  of  time  did  ne'er  unroll; 

Chill  Penury  repress'd  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene, 

The  dark  unfathom'd  caves  of  ocean  bear : 


■*9  346  8<- 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village-Hampden,  that  with  dauntless  breast 
The  little  Tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood ; 

Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 
Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

Th'  applause  of  list'ning  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 
And  read  their  hist'ry  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade  :  nor  circumscrib'd  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confin'd  ; 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind, 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learn'd  to  stray ; 

Along  the  cool  sequester'd  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  ev'n  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect 
Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 


-»8  347  9«- 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  deck'd, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  th'  unletter'd  muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply : 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews. 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who  to  dumb  Forgetfulness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resign'd, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing  ling'ring  look  behind  ? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires; 

Ev'n  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries, 
Ev'n  in  our  Ashes  live  their  wonted  Fires. 

For  thee,  who  mindful  of  th'  unhonor'd  Dead 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate ; 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred  Spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  Swain  may  say, 
6  Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 

'  Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away 
i  To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

'  There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech 
'  That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 

'  His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
*  And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 


-*8  348  3«- 

'  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
'  Mutt' ring  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove, 

'Now  drooping,  woeful  wan,  like  one  forlorn, 
'  Or  craz'd  with  care,  or  cross' d  in  hopeless  love. 

'  One  morn  I  miss'd  him  on  the  custom'd  hill, 
'  Along  the  heath  and  near  his  fav'rite  tree ; 

'  Another  came ;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 

i  Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he ; 

'  The  next  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array 

'  Slow  thro'  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him  borne. 
'  Approach  and  read  (for  thou  can'st  read)  the  lay, 

'Grav'd  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn/ 

THE  EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth  , 
A  Youth  to  Fortune  and  to  Fame  unknown. 

Fair  Science  frown' d  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  Melancholy  marled  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere, 
Heav'n  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send : 

He  gave  to  MisWy  all  he  had,  a  tear, 

He  gain  d  from  Heav'n  {'twas  all  he  wisKd)  a  friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


-*8  349  8*- 


BELSHAZZAR'S    FEAST. 


Belshazzar  the  king  made  a  great  feast  to  a  thou- 
sand of  his  lords,  and  drank  wine  before  the  thousand. 
Belshazzar,  while  he  tasted  the  wine,  commanded  to 
bring  the  golden  and  silver  vessels,  which  his  father 
Nebuchadnezzar  had  taken  out  of  the  temple  which  5 
was  in  Jerusalem;  that  the  king  and  his  princes  and 
his  wives  might  drink  therein. 

Then  they  brought  the  golden  vessels  that  were  taken 
out  of  the  temple  of  the  house  of  God,  which  was  at 
Jerusalem;   and  the  king,  his  princes  and  his  wives,  10 
drank  in  them. 

They  drank  wine,  and  praised  the  gods  of  gold,  and 
of  silver,  of  brass,  of  iron,  of  wood,  and  of  stone. 

In  the  same  hour  came  forth  fingers  of  a  man's 
hand,  and  wrote  over  against  the  candlestick  upon  the  15 
plaster  of  the  wall  of  the  king's  palace :  and  the  king 
saw  the  part  of  the  hand  that  wrote. 

Then  the  king's  countenance  was  changed,  and  his 
thoughts  troubled  him,  so  that  the  joints  of  his  loins 
were  loosed,  and  his  knees  smote  one  against  another.  20 
The  king  cried  aloud  to  bring  in  the  astrologers,  the 
Chaldeans,  and  the  soothsayers.  And  the  king  spake 
and  said  to  the  wise  men  of  Babylon :  "  Whosoever 
shall  read  this  writing,  and  show  me  the  interpretation 
thereof,  shall  be  clothed  with  scarlet,  and  have  a  chain  25 
of  gold  about  his  neck,  and  shall  be  the  third  ruler  in 
the  kingdom." 


-»8  350  8«- 

Then  came  in  all  the  king's  wise  men :  but  they 
could  not  read  the  writing,  nor  make  known  to  the 
king  the  interpretation  thereof. 

Then  was  King  Belshazzar  greatly  troubled,  and  his 
5  countenance  was  changed  in  him,  and  his  lords  were 
astonished. 

Now  the  queen,  by  reason  of  the  words  of  the  king 

and  his  lords,  came  into  the  banquet  house:   and  the 

queen  spake  and  said :  "0  king,  live  for  ever :  let  not 

10  thy  thoughts  trouble  thee,  nor  let  thy  countenance  be 

changed : 

"There  is  a  man  in  thy  kingdom  in  whom  is  the 
spirit  of  the  holy  gods ;  and  in  the  days  of  thy  father 
light  and  understanding  and  wisdom,  like  the  wisdom 
15  of  the  gods,  was  found  in  him ;  whom  the  king  Nebu- 
chadnezzar thy  father,  the  king,  I  say,  thy  father,  made 
him  master  of  the  magicians,  astrologers,  Chaldeans, 
and  soothsayers; 

"Forasmuch  as  an  excellent  spirit,  and  knowledge, 
20  and  understanding,  interpreting  of  dreams,  and  showing 
of  hard  sentences,  and  dissolving  of  doubts,  were  found 
in  the  same  Daniel,  whom  the  king  named  Belteshazzar  : 
now  let  Daniel  be  called,  and  he  will  show  the  inter- 
pretation." 
26  Then  was  Daniel  brought  in  before  the  king.  And 
the  king  spake  and  said  unto  Daniel:  "Art  thou  that 
Daniel,  which  art  of  the  children  of  the  captivity  of 
Judah,  whom  the  king,  my  father,  brought  out  of 
Jewry  ? 


-»8  351    9«- 

"  I  have  even  heard  of  thee,  that  the  spirit  of  the 
gods  is  in  thee,  and  that  light  and  understanding  and 
excellent  wisdom  is  found  in  thee. 

"  And  now  the  wise  men,  the  astrologers,  have  been 
brought   in   before   me,   that    they   should   read    this   5 
writing,  and  make  known  unto  me  the  interpretation 
thereof  :    but  they  could  not  show  the  interpretation 
of  the  thing: 

"And  I  have  heard  of  thee,  that  thou  canst  make 
interpretations,  and  dissolve  doubts :  now  if  thou  canst  10 
read  the  writing,  and  make  known  to  me  the  interpre- 
tation thereof,  thou  shalt  be  clothed  with  scarlet,  and 
have  a  chain  of  gold  about  thy  neck,  and  shalt  be  the 
third  ruler  in  the  kingdom." 

Then  Daniel  answered  and  said   before  the  king:  15 
"  Let  thy  gifts  be  to  thyself,  and  give  thy  rewards  to 
another ;  yet  I  will  read  the  writing  unto  the  king,  and 
make  known  to  him  the  interpretation. 

"0  thou  king,  the  most  high  God  gave  Nebuchad- 
nezzar thy  father  a  kingdom,  and  majesty,  and  glory,  20 
and  honor : 

"And  for  the  majesty  that  he  gave  him,  all  people, 
nations,  and  languages  trembled  and  feared  before  him  : 
whom  he  would  he  slew,  and  whom  he  would  he  kept 
alive ;  and  whom  he  would  he  set  up,  and  whom  he  25 
would  he  put  down. 

"But  when  his  heart  was  lifted  up,  and  his  mind 
hardened  in  pride,  he  was  deposed  from  his  kingly 
throne,  and  they  took  his  glory  from  him : 


-*6  352  3»- 

"And  he  was  driven  from  the  sons  of  men;  and  his 
heart  was  made  like  the  beasts,  and  his  dwelling  was 
with  the  wild  asses  :  they  fed  him  with  grass  like  oxen, 
and  his  body  was  wet  with  the  dew  of  heaven ;  till  he 
5  knew  that  the  most  high  God  ruled  in  the  kingdom  of 
men,  and  that  he  appointeth  over  it  whomsoever  he  will. 

"And  thou  his  son,  0  Belshazzar,  hast  not  humbled 
thine  heart,  though  thou  knewest  all  this ; 

"But  hast  lifted  up  thyself  against  the  Lord  of 
10  heaven ;  and  they  have  brought  the  vessels  of  his 
house  before  thee,  and  thou  and  thy  lords  and  thy 
wives,  have  drunk  wine  in  them  ;  and  thou  hast  praised 
the  gods  of  silver,  and  gold,  of  brass,  iron,  wood,  and 
stone,  which  see  not,  nor  hear,  nor  know :  and  the  God 
15  in  whose  hand  thy  breath  is,  and  whose  are  all  thy 
ways,  hast  thou  not  glorified: 

"  Then  was  the  part  of  the  hand  sent  from  him ;  and 
this  writing  was  written. 

"  And  this  is  the  writing  that  was  written :  — 

20  MENE,    MENE,    TEKEL,    UPHARSIN. 

This  is  the  interpretation  of  the  thing :  — 

MENE; 

God  hath  numbered  thy  kingdom, 
And  finished  it. 

25  TEKEL ; 

Thou  art  weighed  in  the  balances, 
And  art  found  wanting. 


-»8  353  8»- 
PERES ; 

Thy  kingdom  is  divided, 
•   And  given  to  the  Medes  and  Persians." 

Then  commanded  Belshazzar,  and  they  clothed  Daniel 
with  scarlet  and  put  a  chain  of  gold  about  his  neck,   5 
and  made  a  proclamation  concerning  him,  that  he  should 
be  the  third  ruler  in  the  kingdom. 
*    In  that  night  was  Belshazzar,  the  king  of  the  Chal- 
deans, slain. 

And  Darius,  the  Median,  took  the  kingdom,  being  10 
about  threescore  and  two  years  old. 

From  m  The  Bible,"  Book  of  Daniel,  Chap.  V. 


-•8  354  3«- 


THE  BATTLE  OF  QUEBEC. 


FRANCIS  PARKMAN. 


Francis  Parkman  was  born  in  Boston  in  1823.    He  was  grad- 
uated from  Harvard  College  when  lie  was  twenty -one.     He  visited 

Europe  and  on  his  return  went 
on  a  tour  in  the  far  West,  across 
the  prairies  and  among  the  Rocky 
Mountains.  He  became  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  Indians,  shar- 
ing their  camps  and  hunting 
buffaloes  with  them.  His  book, 
"The  California  and  Oregon 
Trail,"  contains  a  vivid  account 
of  his  explorations.  This  book 
was  followed  by  "  The  History  of 
the  Conspiracy  of  Pontiac"  and 
a  novel  called  "  Vassal  Morton." 
Mr.  Parkman  devoted  a  num- 
ber of  years  to  writing  histories  of  the  attempts  of  the  French 
and  English  to  settle  North  America.  His  qualities  as  a  writer 
were  of  a  high  order.  His  style  is  marked  by  uncommon  vigor. 
20  His  pages  are  alive  with  thrilling  adventure,  brilliant  description, 
and  romantic  episodes.  He  has  left  no  room  for  a  competitor  in 
the  same  field.     Mr.  Parkman  died  in  1893. 


The  eventful  night  of  the  12th  was  clear  and  calm, 
with  no  light  but  that  of  the  stars.  Within  two  hours 
25  before  daybreak  thirty  boats,  crowded  with  sixteen  hun- 
dred soldiers,  cast  off  from  the  vessels  and  floated  down- 
ward, in  perfect  order,  with  the  current  of  the  ebb  tide. 
To  the  boundless  joy  of  the  army,  Wolfe's  malady  had 
abated,  and  he  was  able  to  command  in  person.     His 


-»6  355  8«- 

ruined  health,  the  gloomy  prospects  of  the  siege,  and  the 
disaster  at  Montmorenci  had  oppressed  him  with  the 
deepest  melancholy,  but  never  impaired  for  a  moment 
the  promptness  of  his  decisions  or  the  impetuous  energy 
of  his  action.  He  sat  in  the  stern  of  one- of  the  boats,  5 
pale  and  weak,  but  borne  up  to  a  calm  height  of  resolu- 
tion. Every  order  had  been  given,  every  arrangement 
made,  and  it  only  remained  to  face  the  issue.  The  ebb- 
ing tide  sufficed  to  bear  the  boats  along,  and  nothing 
broke  the  silence  of  the  night  but  the  gurgling  of  the  10 
river  and  the  low  voice  of  Wolfe,  as  he  repeated  to  the 
officers  about  him  the  stanzas  of  Gray's  "  Elegy  in  a 
Country  Churchyard,"  which  had  recently  appeared  and 
which  he  had  just  received  from  England.  Perhaps,  as 
he  uttered  those  strangely  appropriate  words,  —  ie 

"  The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave," 

the  shadows  of  his  own  approaching  fate  stole  with 
mournful  prophecy  across  his  mind.  "  Gentlemen/ '  he 
said  as  he  closed  his  recital,  "  I  would  rather  have  writ- 
ten those  lines  than  take  Quebec  to-morrow. "  20 

As  they  approached  the  landing-place,  the  boats  edged 
closer  in  towards  the  northern  shore,  and  the  woody 
precipices  rose  high  on  their  left,  like  a  wall  of  undis- 
tinguished blackness. 

They  reached  the  landing-place  in  safety  —  an  indenta-  25 
tion  in  the  shore  about  a  league  above  the  city,  and  now 
bearing  the  name  of  Wolfe's  Cove.    Here  a  narrow  path 
led  up  the  face  of  the  heights,  and  a  French  guard  was 


->8  356  9*- 


posted  at  the  top  to  defend  the  pass.  By  the  force  of 
the  current  the  foremost  boats,  including  that  which 
carried  Wolfe  himself,  were  borne  a  little  below  the 
spot.     The  general  was  one  of  the  first  on  shore. 

Meanwhile  the  ves- 
sels had  dropped  down- 
ward with  the  current, 
and  anchored  opposite 
the  landing-place.  The 
remaining  troops  were 
disembarked,  and,  with 
the  dawn  of  day,  the 
whole  were  brought  in 
safety  to  the  shore. 

The  sun  rose,  and, 
from  the  ramparts  of 
Quebec,  the  astonished 
people  saw  the  Plains 
of  Abraham  glittering 
with  arms,  and  the 
dark-red  lines  of  the 
English  forming  in 
array  of  battle.  Breath- 
less messengers  had 
borne  the  evil  tidings 
to  Montcalm,  and  far  and  near  his  wide-extended 
camp  resounded  with  the  rolling  of  alarm  drums 
and  the  din  of  startled  preparation.  He,  too,  had 
Jiis  struggles  and  his  sorrows.     The  civil  power  had 


THE   ASCENT   TO   THE    PLAINS   OF    ABRAHAM. 


-*6  357  8«- 

thwarted  him ;  famine,  discontent,  and  disaffection  were 
rife  among  his  soldiers ;  and  no  small  portion  of  the 
Canadian  militia  had  dispersed  from  sheer  starvation. 
In  spite  of  all,  he  had  trusted  to  hold  out  till  the  win- 
ter frosts  should  drive  the  invaders  from  before  the  5 
town,  when,  on  that  disastrous  morning,  the  news  of 
their  successful  temerity  fell  like  a  cannon  shot  upon 
his  ear.  Still  he  assumed  a  tone  of  confidence.  "  They 
have  got  to  the  weak  side  of  us  at  last,"  he  is  reported  to 
have  said,  u  and  we  must  crush  them  with  our  numbers."  10 

At  a  little  before  ten  the  English  could  see  that 
Montcalm  was  preparing  to  advance,  and  in  a  few 
moments  all  his  troops  appeared  in  rapid  motion. 
They  came  on  in  three  divisions,  shouting,  after  the 
manner  of  their  nation,  and  firing  heavily  as  soon  as  15 
they  came  within  range.  In  the  British  ranks  not  a 
trigger  was  pulled,  not  a  soldier  stirred;  and  their 
ominous  composure  seemed  to  damp  the  spirits  of  the 
assailants.  It  was  not  till  the  French  were  within 
forty  yards  that  the  fatal  word  was  given,  and  the  20 
British  muskets  blazed  forth  at  once  in  one  crashing 
explosion.  Like  a  ship  at  full  career,  arrested  with 
sudden  ruin  on  a  sunken  rock,  the  ranks  of  Montcalm 
staggered,  shivered,  and  broke  before  that  wasting  storm 
of  lead.  The  smoke,  rolling  along  the  field,  for  a  mo-  25 
ment  shut  out  the  view ;  but  when  the  white  wreaths 
were  scattered  on  the  wind,  a  wretched  spectacle  was 
disclosed ;  men  and  officers  tumbled  in  heaps,  battalions 
resolved  into  a  mob,  order  and  obedience  gone;  and 


-*8  358  B»- 

when  the  British  muskets  were  leveled  for  a  second 
volley,  the  masses  of  the  militia  were  seen  to  cower 
and  shrink  with  uncontrollable  panic.  For  a  few  min- 
utes the  French  regulars  stood  their  ground,  returning 

5  a  sharp  and  not  ineffectual  fire.  But  now,  echoing 
cheer  on  cheer,  redoubling  volley  on  volley,  trampling 
the  dying  and  the  dead,  and  driving  the  fugitives  in 
crowds,  the  British  troops  advanced  and  swept  the  field 
before  them.     The  ardor  of  the  men  burst  all  restraint. 

10  They  broke  into  a  run  and  with  unsparing  slaughter 
chased  the  flying  multitude  to  the  gates  of  Quebec. 
Foremost  of  all,  the  light-footed  Highlanders  dashed 
along  in  furious  pursuit,  hewing  down  the  Frenchmen 
with  their  broadswords,  and  slaying  many  in  the  very 

15  ditch  of  the  fortifications.  Never  was  victory  more 
quick  or  more  decisive ;  yet  the  triumph  of  the  victors 
was  mingled  with  sadness  as  the  tidings  went  from 
rank  to  rank  that  Wolfe  had  fallen. 

In  the  heat  of  the  action,  as  he  advanced  at  the  head 

20  of  the  grenadiers  of  Louisburg,  a  bullet  shattered  his 
wrist;  but  he  wrapped  his  handkerchief  about  the 
wound  and  showed  no  sign  of  pain.  A  moment  more 
and  a  ball  pierced  his  side.  Still  he  pressed  forward, 
waving  his  sword  and  cheering  his  soldiers  to  the  attack, 

25  when  a  third  shot  lodged  deep  within  his  breast.  He 
paused,  reeled,  and,  staggering  to  one  side,  fell  to  the 
earth.  Brown,  a  lieutenant  of  the  grenadiers,  Hender- 
son, a  volunteer,  an  officer  of  artillery,  and  a  private 
soldier  raised  him  together  in  their  arms,  and,  bearing 


-*8  359  8«- 

him  to  the  rear,  laid  him  softly  on  the  grass.  They 
asked  him  if  he  would  have  a  surgeon ;  but  he  shook 
his  head  and  answered  that  all  was  over  with  him. 
His  eyes  closed  with  the  torpor  of  approaching  death, 
and  those  around  sustained  his  fainting  form.  Yet  5 
they  could  not  withhold  their  gaze  from  the  wild  tur- 
moil before  them  and  the  charging  ranks  of  their  com- 
panions rushing  through  fire  and  smoke.  "  See  how 
they  run ! "  one  of  the  officers  exclaimed  as  the  French 
fled  in  confusion  before  the  leveled  bayonets.  "  Who  10 
run  ?  "  demanded  Wolfe,  opening  his  eyes,  like  a  man 
aroused  from  sleep.  "  The  enemy,  sir,"  was  the  reply ; 
"  they  give  way  everywhere."  "  Then,"  said  the  dying 
general,  "tell  Colonel  Burton  to  march  Webb's  regi- 
ment down  to  Charles  River,  to  cut  off  their  retreat  is 
from  the  bridge.  Now,  God  be  praised !  I  will  die  in 
peace,"  he  murmured;  and,  turning  on  his  side,  he 
calmly  breathed  his  last. 

From  "  Montcalm  and  Wolfe.''1 


-hQ  360  9«- 

THE   STARLING. 
LAURENCE  STERNE. 

Laurence  Sterne,  an  English  novelist,  was  born  in  Ire- 
land in  1713. 

He  was  the  son  of  an  English  officer,  and  the  first  ten  years  of 
his  life  were  spent  in  traveling  about  with  his  father's  regiment. 
5  He  then  entered  a  school  near  Halifax,  where  he  studied  for 
eight  or  nine  years,  and  completed  his  education  at  the  Univer- 
sity of  Cambridge. 

Mr.  Sterne  became  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England,  but 
devoted  a  large  portion  of  his  time  to  the  writing  of  fiction.  He 
10  died  in  London  in  1768. 

And  as  for  the  Bastille,  the  terror  is  in  the  word. 
Make  the  most  of  it  you  can,  said  I  to  myself,  the  Bas- 
tille is  but  another  word  for  a  tower,  and  a  tower  is  but 
another  word  for  a  house  you  can't  get  out  of.     Mercy 

is  on  the  gouty !  for  they  are  in  it  twice  a  year.  But  with 
nine  livres  a  day,  and  pen  and  ink  and  paper  and  pa- 
tience, albeit  a  man  can't  get  out,  he  may  do  very  well 
within,  at  least  for  a  month  or  six  weeks,  at  the  end  of 
which,  if  he  is  a  harmless  fellow,  his  innocence  appears 

20  and  he  comes  out  a  better  and  wiser  man  than  he  went  in. 
I  had  some  occasion  —  I  forget  what  —  to  step  into 
the  courtyard,  as  I  settled  this  account,  and  remember 
I  walked  downstairs  in  no  small  triumph  with  the  con- 
ceit of  my  reasoning.     "  Beshrew  the  somber  pencil !  " 

25  said  I  vauntingly ;  u  for  I  envy  not  its  power,  which 
paints  the  evils  of  life  with  so  hard  and  deadly  a  color- 


-»6  S61  8i- 

ing.  The  mind  sits  terrified  at  the  objects  she  has  mag- 
nified herself  and  blackened.  Reduce  them  to  their 
proper  size  and  hue,  she  overlooks  them.  'T  is  true/' 
said  I,  correcting  the  proposition,  u  the  Bastille  is  not 
an  evil  to  be  despised.  But  strip  it  of  its  towers,  fill  5 
up  the  fosse,  unbarricade  the  doors,  call  it  simply  a  con- 
finement, and  suppose  't  is  some  tyrant  of  a  distemper, 
and  not  of  a  man,  which  holds  you  in  it,  the  evil  van- 
ishes and  you  bear  the  other  half  without  complaint." 

I  was  interrupted  in  the  heyday  of  this  soliloquy  with  10 
a  voice  which  I  took  to  be  that  of  a  child,  which  com- 
plained it  could  not  get  out.     I  looked  up  and  down  the 
passage,  and,  seeing  neither  man,  woman,  nor  child,  I 
went  out  without  further  attention. 

In  my  return  back  through  the  passage,  I  heard  the  is 
same  words  repeated  twice  over ;  and,  looking  up,  I  saw 
it  was  a  starling,  hung  in  a  little  cage.     "  I  can't  get 
out  —  I  can't  get  out,"  said  the  starling. 

I  stood  looking  at  the  bird  ;  and  to  every  person  who 
came  through  the  passage  it  ran  fluttering  to  the  side  20 
towards  which  they  approached  it,  with  the  same  lamen- 
tation of  its  captivity.  "  I  can't  get  out,"  said  the  star- 
ling. "  God  help  thee  !  "  said  I ;  "  but  I  '11  let  thee  out, 
cost  what  it  will."  So  I  turned  about  the  cage  to  get 
the  door.  It  was  twisted  and  double  twisted  so  fast  25 
with  wire  there  was  no  getting  it  open  without  pulling 
the  cage  to  pieces.     I  took  both  hands  to  it. 

The  bird  flew  to  the  place  where  I  was  attempting 
his  deliverance,  and,  thrusting  his  head  through  the 


h6  862  9«- 

trellis,  pressed  his  breast  against  it,  as  if  impatient. 
"  I  fear,  poor  creature,"  said  I,  "  I  cannot  set  thee  at 
liberty."  "  No,"  said  the  starling  ;  "  I  can't  get  out  — 
I  can't  get  out." 

5  I  never  had  my  affections  more  tenderly  awakened, 
nor  do  I  remember  an  incident  in  my  life  where 
the  dissipated  spirits  to  which  my  reason  had  been  a 
bubble  were  so  suddenly  called  home.  Mechanical  as 
the  notes  were,  yet  so  true  in  tune  to  nature  were  they 

10  chanted,  that  in  one  moment  they  overthrew  all  my 
systematic  reasonings  upon  the  Bastille ;  and  I  heavily 
walked  upstairs,  unsaying  every  word  I  had  said  in 
going  down  them. 

"  Disguise  thyself  as  thou  wilt,  still,  Slavery,"  said  I, 

15  "  still  thou  art  a  bitter  draught ;  and  though  thousands 
in  all  ages  have  ,been  made  to  drink  of  thee,  thou  art 
no  less  bitter  on  that  account.  'T  is  thou,  thrice  sweet 
and  gracious  goddess,"  —  addressing  myself  to  Liberty, 
—  "whom  all,  in  public  or  in  private,  worship,  whose 

20  taste  is  grateful,  and  ever  will  be  so,  till  Nature  herself 
shall  change.  No  tint  of  words  can  spot  thy  snowy 
mantle,  nor  chymic  power  turn  thy  scepter  into  iron. 
With  thee  to  smile  upon  him  as  he  eats  his  crust,  the 
swain  is  happier  than  his  monarch,  from  whose  court 

25  thou  art  exiled.  Gracious  Heaven !  "  cried  I,  kneeling 
down  upon  the  last  step  but  one  in  my  ascent,  "  grant 
me  but  health,  thou  great  Bestower  of  it,  and  give  me 
but  this  fair  goddess  as  my  companion,  and  shower 
down   thy   miters,  if  it   seem   good  unto  thy   divine 


-»8  363  8*- 

providence,  upon   those   heads  which  are  aching  for 
them." 

The  bird  in  his  cage  pursued  me  into  my  room.     I 
sat  down  close  by  my  table,  and,  leaning  my  head  upon 
my  hand,  I  began  to  figure  to  myself  the  miseries  of   5 
confinement,     I  was  in  a  right  frame  for  it,  and  so  I 
gave  full  scope  to  my  imagination. 

I  was  going  to  begin  with  the  millions  of  my  fellow- 
creatures  born  to  no  inheritance  but  slavery ;  but  find- 
ing, however  affecting  the  picture  was,  that  I  could  not  10 
bring  it  near  me,  and  that  the  multitude  of  sad  groups 
in  it  did  but  distract  me,  I  took  a  single  captive,  and, 
having  first  shut  him  up  in  his  dungeon,  I  then  looked 
through  the  twilight  of  his  grated  door  to  take  his 
picture.  is 

I  beheld  his  body  half  wasted  away  with  long  expec- 
tation and  confinement,  and  felt  what  kind  of  sickness 
of  the  heart  it  was  which  arises  from  hope  deferred. 
Upon  looking  nearer,  I  saw  him  pale  and  feverish.  In 
thirty  years  the  western  breeze  had  not  once  fanned  his  20 
blood.  He  had  seen  no  sun,  no  moon  in  all  that  time,' 
nor  had  the  voice  of  friend  or  kinsman  breathed  through 
his  lattice.     His  children  !  — 

But  here  my  heart  began  to  bleed,  and  I  was  forced 
to  go  on  with  another  part  of  the  portrait.  25 

He  was  sitting  upon  the  ground,  upon  a  little  straw, 
in  the  farthest  corner  of  his  dungeon,  which  was  alter- 
nately his  chair  and  bed.  A  little  calendar  of  small 
sticks  was  laid  at  the  head,  notched  all  over  with  the 


->9  364  8«- 

dismal  days  and  nights  he  had  passed  there.  He  had 
one  of  these  little  sticks  in  his  hand,  and  with  a  rusty 
nail  he  was  etching  another  day  of  misery  to  add  to  the 
heap.     As  I  darkened  the  little  light  he  had,  he  lifted 

s  up  a  hopeless  eye  towards  the  door,  then  cast  it  down, 
shook  his  head,  and  went  on  with  his  work  of  affliction. 
I  heard  his  chains  upon  his  legs  as  he  turned  his  body 
to  lay  his  little  stick  upon  the  bundle.  He  gave  a  deep 
sigh.     I  saw  the  iron  enter  into  his  soul.     I  burst  into 

10  tears.  I  could  not  sustain  the  picture  of  confinement 
which  my  fancy  had  drawn. 

From  "  The  Sentimental  Journey.'1'' 


-*6  365  9»- 

THE   BELFRY  PIGEON. 

NATHANIEL    PARKER    WILLIS. 

Nathaniel  Parker  Willis  was  born  in  Portland,  Me.,  in 
1807,  and  died  near  Cornwall-on-the-Hudson,  N.  Y.,  in  1867.  His 
father  was  an  editor  and  founded  "The  Youth's  Companion." 
His  sister  was  an  authoress  who  wrote  under  the  name  of  "  Fanny 
Fern."  5 

Nathaniel  was  graduated  at  Yale  College,  and  wrote  poems  and 
literary  essays  during  his  college  course.  He  spent  several  years 
in  traveling  about  Europe,  and  wrote  a  series  of  letters  for  the 
newspapers  during  this  time. 

Mr.  Willis  published  a  number  of  poems,  books  of  travel,  and  10 
novels.      He  possessed  great  natural  gifts  and  there  is  much 
beauty  in  his  prose  and  verse. 

On  the  cross-beam,  under  the  Old  South  bell, 
The  nest  of  a  pigeon  is  builded  well. 
In  summer  and  winter  that  bird  is  there, 
Out  and  in  with  the  morning  air ; 
I  love  to  see  him  track  the  street, 
With  his  wary  eye  and  active  feet ; 
And  I  often  watch  him  as  he  springs, 
Circling  the  steeple  with  easy  wings, 
Till  across  the  dial  his  shadow  has  passed, 
And  the  belfry  edge  is  gained  at  last. 
-  'T  is  a  bird  I  love,  with  its  brooding  note, 
And  the  trembling  throb  in  its  mottled  throat ; 
There 's  a  human  look  in  its  swelling  breast, 
And  the  gentle  curve  of  its  lowly  crest ; 
And  I  often  stop  with  the  fear  I  feel  — 
He  runs  so  close  to  the  rapid  wheel. 


-♦8  366  &- 

Whatever  is  rung  on  that  noisy  bell  — 

Chime  of  the  hour,  or  funeral  knell  — 

The  dove  in  the  belfry  must  hear  it  well. 

When  the  tongue  swings  out  to  the  midnight  moon 

When  the  sexton  cheerily  rings  for  noon, 

When  the  clock  strikes  clear  at  morning  light, 

When  the  child  is  waked  with  "  nine  at  night," 

When  the  chimes  play  soft  in  the  Sabbath  air, 

Filling  the  spirit  with  tones  of  prayer,  — 

Whatever  tale  in  the  bell  is  heard, 

He  broods  on  his  folded  feet  unstirred, 

Or,  rising  half  in  his  rounded  nest, 

He  takes  the  time  to  smooth  his  breast, 

Then  drops  again,  with  filmed  eyes, 

And  sleeps  as  the  last  vibration  dies. 

Sweet  bird,  I  would  that  I  could  be 

A  hermit  in  the  crowd  like  thee ! 

With  wings  to  fly  to  wood  and  glen, 

Thy  lot,  like  mine,  is  cast  with  men ; 

And  daily,  with  unwilling  feet, 

I  tread,  like  thee,  the  crowded  street ; 

But  unlike  me,  when  day  is  o'er, 

Thou  canst  dismiss  the  world  and  soar, 

Or,  at  a  half-felt  wish  for  rest, 

Canst  smooth  the  feathers  on  thy  breast, 

And  drop,  forgetful,  to  thy  nest. 


Hi  367  B«- 


LADY   UNA  AND  THE   LION. 


EDMUND  SPENSER. 


Edmund  Spenser  was  a  famous  English  poet  who  lived  in  the 
time  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  He  was  born  in  London  in  1553  and 
received  his  education  at  Cambridge,  where  he  was  a  sizar. 
There  is  a  mulberry  tree,  which  Spenser  is  said  to  have  planted, 
still  standing  in  the  garden  of  the 
college. 

His  early  boyhood  was  passed  ini 
London,  with  frequent  visits  among 
the  glens  of  northern  England. 

Spenser  left  Cambridge  when  he 
was  twenty -four  years  old,  and  spent 
several  years  with  his  relations  in  the 
north  of  England.  On  his  return 
to  London,  he  published  a  series  of 
twelve  poems  named  after  the 
months,  and  called  "  The  Shep- 
hearde's    Calender."      This    gained 

him  a  name  as  the  first  poet  of  the  day.     The  next  summer 
he  went  to  Ireland  as  secretary  to  Lord  Grey. 

Several  years  later  he  was  awarded  the  Castle  of  Kilcolman  20 
for  his  services.  Here  he  was  visited  by  Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 
Spenser  had  written  three  books  of  "The  Faerie  Queene,"  his 
greatest  poem,  and  Raleigh  listened  to  them  as  the  two  poets  sat 
beneath  the  alder  trees  beside  the  River  Mulla,  which  flowed 
through  the  castle  grounds.  Raleigh  was  delighted  with  the  25 
poem,  and  persuaded  Spenser  to  accompany  him  to  England, 
where  he  was  presented  to  the  Queen. 

The  first  three  books  of  "  The  Eaerie  Queene  "  were  dedicated 
to  Queen  Elizabeth.  It  was  the  first  great  allegorical  poem  that 
England  had  produced,  and  it  has  never  lost  its  power.  30 


-»6  368  8*- 

Spenser  possessed  a  wonderful   imagination,  and  had  but  to 
close  his  eyes  and  he  was  in  an  enchanted  land. 

"The  Faerie  Queene"  is  the  story  of   noble  knights   fight- 
ing against  wrong,  and  a  beautiful  lady  rescued  from  danger. 
5  Only   six   books   of   the   twelve  which   Spenser   planned   were 
published. 

The  last   years   of   Spenser's   life  were   filled  with   sadness. 
During  a  rebellion  his  castle  was  burnt,  and  he  and  his  family 
fled  to  England. 
10      He  died  in  London  in  1599,  at  the  age  of  forty-six,  and  was 
buried  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

Nought  is  there  under  heaven's  wide  hallowness 
That  moves  more  dear  compassion  of  mind, 
Than  beauty  brought  t'  unworthy  wretchedness 
Through  envy's  snares,  or  fortune's  freaks  unkind. 
I,  whether  lately  through  her  brightness  blind, 
Or  through  allegiance  and  fast  fealty, 
Which  I  do  owe  unto  all  womankind, 
Feel  my  heart  pierced  with  so  great  agony, 
When  such  I  see,  that  all  for  pity  I  could  die. 

And  now  it  is  empassioned  so  deep, 
For  fairest  Una's  sake,  of  whom  I  sing, 
That  my  frail  eyes  these  lines  with  tears  do  steep, 
To  think  how  she  through  guileful  handeling, 
Though  true  as  touch,  though  daughter  of  a  king, 
Though  fair  as  ever  living  wight  was  fair, 
Though  nor  in  word  nor  deed  ill  meriting, 
Is  from  her  Knight  divorced  in  despair, 
And  her  due  loves  derived  to  that  vile  Witch's  share. 


-»6  369  8«- 

Yet  she,  most  faithful  Lady  all  this  while, 
Forsaken,  woeful,  solitary  maid, 
Far  from  all  people's  press,  as  in  exile, 
In  wilderness  and  wasteful  deserts  stray'd 
To  seek  her  Knight ;  who,  subtilly  betray' d 
Through  that  late  vision  which  th'  Enchanter  wrought, 
Had  her  abandon'd  :  she,  of  nought  affray'd, 
Through  woods  and  wasteness  wide  him  daily  sought ; 
Yet  wished  tidings  none  of  him  unto  her  brought. 

One  day,  nigh  weary  of  the  irksome  way, 
From  her  unhasty  beast  she  did  alight ; 
And  on  the  grass  her  dainty  limbs  did  lay 
In  secret  shadow,  far  from  all  men's  sight ; 
From  her  fair  head  her  fillet  she  undight, 
And  laid  her  stole  aside :  her  angel's  face, 
As  the  great  eye  of  heaven,  shine d  bright, 
And  made  a  sunshine  in  the  shady  place : 
Did  never  mortal  eye  behold  such  heavenly  grace. 

It  fortuned,  out  of  the  thickest  wood 
A  ramping  lion  rushed  suddenly, 
Hunting  full  greedy  after  savage  blood : 
Soon  as  the  royal  Virgin  he  did  spy, 
With  gaping  mouth  at  her  ran  greedily, 
To  have  at  once  devour' d  her  tender  corse ; 
But  to  the  prey  when  as  he  drew  more  nigh, 
His  bloody  rage  assuaged  with  remorse, 
And,  with  the  sight  amazed,  forgat  his  furious  force. 


-*8  370  9«~ 

Instead  thereof,  he  kiss'd  her  weary  feet, 
And  lick'd  her  lily  hands  with  fawning  tongue, 
As  he  her  wronged  innocence  did  weet. 
0,  how  can  beauty  master  the  most  strong, 
And  simple  truth  subdue  avenging  wrong ! 
Whose  yielded  pride  and  proud  submission, 
Still  dreading  death,  when  she  had  marked  long, 
Her  heart  'gan  melt  in  great  compassion ; 
And  drizzling  tears  did  shed  for  pure  affection. 

"The  lion,  lord  of  every  beast  in  field," 
Quoth  she,  "  his  princely  puissance  doth  abate, 
And  mighty  proud  to  humble  weak  does  yield, 
Forgetful  of  the  hungry  rage  which  late 
Him  prick' d,  in  pity  of  my  sad  estate :  — 
But  he,  my  lion,  and  my  noble  lord, 
How  does  he  find  in  cruel  heart  to  hate 
Her  that  him  loved,  and  ever  most  adored 
As  the  god  of  my  life  ?  why  hath  he  me  abhorr'd  ? " 

Redounding  tears  did  choke  th'  end  of  her  plaint, 
Which  softly  echo'd  from  the  neighbor  wood ; 
And,  sad  to  see  her  sorrowful  constraint, 
The  kingly  beast  upon  her  gazing  stood ; 
With  pity  calm'd,  down  fell  his  angry  mood. 
At  last,  in  close  heart  shutting  up  her  pain, 
Arose  the  Virgin  born  of  heavenly  brood, 
And  to  her  snowy  palfrey  got  again, 
To  seek  her  strayed  Champion  if  she  might  attain. 


-»8  371  8*- 

The  lion  would  not  leave  her  desolate, 
But  with  her  went  along,  as  a  strong  guard 
Of  her  chaste  person,  and  a  faithful  mate 
Of  her  sad  troubles  and  misfortunes  hard  : 
Still,  when  she  slept,  he  kept  both  watch  and  ward ; 
And,  when  she  waked,  he  waited  diligent, 
With  humble  service  to  her  will  prepared : 
From  her  fair  eyes  he  took  commandement, 
And  ever  by  her  looks  conceived  her  intent. 

From  "  The  Faerie  Queene." 


Una  is  the  heroine  of  the  first  Book  of  Spenser's  "Faerie  Queene." 
She  appears  to  have  been  intended,  at  least  in  part,  as  a  poetical  impersona- 
tion of  Truth.  At  all  events,  she  is  one  of  the  sweetest  and  loveliest  visions 
that  ever  issued  from  a  poet's  brain. 

1.  2.  In  Spenser's  time  the  endings  sion,  Hon,  as  also  cian,  and  various 
others,  were  often  used  as  two  syllables. 

1.  13.  That  is,  handling,  in  the  sense  of  treatment.  Here,  again,  we  have 
a  relic  of  ancient  usage.  So,  too,  in  commandement,  in  the  last  stanza  of  this 
piece.  And  in  many  other  like  words  the  old  poets  often  make  two  syllables 
where  we  now  make  but  one. 

1.  18.  An  old  witch  named  Duessa,  painted  and  dressed  up  into  a  false 
show  of  beauty,  and  dealing  in  magic  arts.  She  had  lied  and  cheated  the 
red-cross  Knight,  the  hero  of  the  story,  out  of  his  faith  in  Una  and  beguiled 
him  with  her  mighty  spells. 

1.  32.  undight,  took  off.  1.  33.  stole,  a  long,  loose  garment  reaching  to 
the  feet.     1.  48.  weet,  understand.     1.  64.  Redounding,  flowing. 


-»8  372  8«- 


PURITY  OF  CHARACTER. 


Over  the  plum  and  apricot  there  may  be  seen  a 
bloom  and  beauty  more  exquisite  than  the  fruit  itseli 
—  a  soft  delicate  flush  that  overspreads  its  blushing 
cheek.     Now,  if  you  strike  your  hand  over  that,  and  it 

5  is  once^  gone,  it  is  gone  forever ;  for  it  never  grows  but 
once. 

The  flower  that  hangs  in  the  morning  impearled 
with  dew,  arrayed  with  jewels,  once  shake  it  so  that 
the  beads  roll  off,  and  you  may  sprinkle  water  over  it 

10  as  you  please,  yet  it  can  never  be  made  again  what  it 
was  when  the  dew  fell  lightly  upon  it  from  heaven. 

On  a  frosty  morning  you  may  see  the  panes  of  glass 
covered  with  landscapes,  mountains,  lakes,  and  trees, 
blended  in   a   beautiful   fantastic   picture.      Now  lay 

15  your  hand  upon  the  glass,  and  by  the  scratch  of  your 
fingers,  or  by  the  warmth  of  the  palm,  all  the  delicate 
tracery  will  be  immediately  obliterated. 

So  in  youth  there  is  a  purity  of  character  which 
when  once  touched  and  defiled  can  never  be  restored 

20  — a  fringe  more  delicate  than  frost-work,  and  which, 
when  torn  and  broken,  will  never  be  reembroidered. 

When  a  young  man  leaves  his  father's  house,  with 
the  blessing  of  his  mother's  tears  still  wet  upon  his 
forehead,  if  he  once  loses  that  early  purity  of  character, 

26  it  is  a  loss  he  can  never  make  whole  again. 


-*8  373  8«- 

DELIGHTS    OF    READING. 

SIR   JOHN    LUBBOCK. 

Books  are  to  mankind  what  memory  is  to  the  indi- 
vidual. They  contain  the  history  of  our  race,  the  dis- 
coveries we  have  made,  the  accumulated  knowledge  and 
experience  of  ages ;  they  picture  for  us  the  marvels  and 
beauties  of  nature ;  help  us  in  our  difficulties,  comfort  5 
us  in  sorrow  and  in  suffering,  change  hours  of  weariness 
into  moments  of  delight,  store  our  minds  with  ideas, 
fill  them  with  good  and  happy  thoughts,  and  lift  us 
out  of  and  above  ourselves. 

There  is  an  Oriental  story  of  two  men :  one  was  a  10 
king,  who  every  night  dreamt  he  was  a  beggar;  the 
other  was  a  beggar,  who  every  night  dreamt  he  was  a 
prince  and  lived  in  a  palace.  I  am  not  sure  that  the 
king  had  very  much  the  best  of  it.  Imagination  is 
sometimes  more  vivid  than  reality.  But,  however  this  15 
may  be,  when  we  read  we  may  not  only  (if  we  wish  it) 
be  kings  and  live  in  palaces,  but,  what  is  far  better,  we 
may  transport  ourselves  to  the  mountains  or  the  sea- 
shore, and  visit  the  most  beautiful  parts  of  the  earth, 
without  fatigue,  inconvenience,  or  expense.  20 

Many  of  those  who  have  had,  as  we  say,  all  that  this 
world  can  give,  have  yet  told  us  they  owed  much  of 
their  purest  happiness  to  books.  Ascham,  in  "  The 
Schoolmaster,''  tells  a  touching  story  of  his  last  visit 
to  Lady  Jane  Grey.     He  found  her  sitting  in  an  oriel  25 


-»6  374  8**- 

window  reading  Plato's  beautiful  account  of  the  death 
of  Socrates.  Her  father  and  mother  were  hunting  in 
the  park,  the  hounds  were  in  full  cry  and  their  voices 
came  in  through  the  open  window.     He  expressed  his 

5  surprise  that  she  had  not  joined  them.  But,  said  she, 
"I  wist  that  all  their  pleasure  in  the  park  is  but  a 
shadow  to  the  pleasure  I  find  in  Plato." 

Macaulay  had  wealth  and  fame,  rank  and  power,  and 
yet  he  tells  us  in  his  biography  that  he  owed  the  hap- 

10  piest  hours  of  his  life  to  books.  In  a  charming  letter 
to  a  little  girl  he  says :  "  Thank  you  for  your  very  pretty 
letter.  I  am  always  glad  to  make  my  little  girl  happy, 
and  nothing  pleases  me  so  much  as  to  see  that  she  likes 
books,  for  when  she  is  as  old  as  I  am  she  will  find  that 

is  they  are  better  than  all  the  tarts  and  cakes,  toys  and 
plays,  and  sights  in  the  world.  If  any  one  would  make 
me  the  greatest  king  that  ever  lived,  with  palaces  and 
gardens  and  fine  dinners,  and  wines  and  coaches,  and 
beautiful  clothes,  and  hundreds  of  servants,  on  condi- 

20  tion  that  I  should  not  read  books,  I  would  not  be  a 
king.  I  would  rather  be  a  poor  man  in  a  garret 
with  plenty  of  books  than  a  king  who  did  not  love 
reading." 

Books,  indeed,  endow  us  with  a  whole  enchanted  pal- 

25  ace  of  thoughts.  There  is  a  wider  prospect,  says  Jean 
Paul  Bichter,  from  Parnassus  than  from  the  throne.  In 
one  way  they  give  us  an  even  more  vivid  idea  than  the 
actual  reality,  just  as  reflections  are  often  more  beauti- 
ful than  real  nature.     All  mirrors,  says  George  Mac- 


-*6  375  8«~ 

Donald,  "  are  magic  mirrors.     The  commonest  room  is 
a  room  in  a  poem  when  I  look  in  the  glass." 

English  literature  is  the  birthright  and  inheritance  of 
the  English  race.  We  have  produced  and  are  produ- 
cing some  of  the  greatest  of  poets,  of  philosophers,  of  5 
men  of  science.  No  race  can  boast  a  brighter,  purer, 
or  nobler  literature  —  richer  than  our  commerce,  more 
powerful  than  our  arms.  It  is  the  true  pride  and  glory 
of  our  country,  and  for  it  we  cannot  be  too  thankful. 

Precious  and  priceless  are  the  blessings  which  the  10 
books  scatter   around  our  daily  paths.     We  walk,  in 
imagination,  with  the  noblest  spirits,  through  the  most 
sublime  and  enchanting  regions,  —  regions  which,  to  all 
that  is  lovely  in  the  forms  and  colors  of  earth, 

"  Add  the  gleam,  15 

The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration  and  the  poet's  dream." 

Without  stirring  from  our  firesides  we  may  roam  to 
the  most  remote  regions  of  the  earth,  or  soar  into 
realms  where  Spenser's  shapes  of  unearthly  beauty  20 
flock  to  meet  us,  where  Milton's  angels  peal  in  our  ears 
the  choral  hymns  of  Paradise.  Science,  art,  literature, 
philosophy,  —  all  that  man  has  thought,  all  that  man 
has  done,  —  the  experience  that  has  been  bought  with 
the  sufferings  of  a  hundred  generations,  —  all  are  gar-  25 
nered  up  for  us  in  the  world  of  books. 

From  "  The  Use  of  Life." 


-»8  376  &- 

BREAK,   BREAK,   BREAK. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

For  a  sketch  of  the  life  of  Tennyson,  see  "  Cyr's  Fourth  Reader," 

Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  0  Sea! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

0  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play ! 

0  well  for  the  sailor  lad 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill : 
But  0  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand, 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  0  Sea ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


-*8  377  8*- 


WILLIAM   SHAKESPEARE. 


William  Shakespeare  was  born  in  the  year  1564, 
at  Stratford-on-Avon,  in  England.  Queen  Elizabeth 
was  on  the  throne  then, 
and  it  was  one  of  the 
most  brilliant  periods 
in  all  English  history. 
The  poems  and  plays 
that  Shakespeare  wrote 
are  the  greatest  in  the 
English  language,  and 
one  cannot  appreciate 
the  best  there  is  in  lit- 
erature unless  he  has 
studied  them.  It  is 
strange  that  no  one 
thought,  in  the    time 

that  he  lived,  of  writing  his  history,  so  that  we  might 
know  as  much  about  him  and  his  boyhood  as  we  do  of 
most  other  great  men. 

Stratford  is  in  the  heart  of  England,  and  the  stream  20 
of  Avon  winds  through  a  beautiful  country.     There 
were  two  famous  old  castles  near  by,  which  had  been 
peopled  by  knights  in  armor,  and  out  of  whose  great 
stone  gateways  they  had  ridden  to  battle. 

We  are  sure  that  Shakespeare  loved  to  listen  to  the  25 
tales  of  these  old  battles,  for  in  later  years  he  based 
several  of  his  great  historical  plays  upon  them. 


-6  378  8* 

One  of  these  plays  is  called  "  Richard  III.,"  and  part 
of  the  scenes  are  laid  in  the  old  Warwick  Castle,  near 
his  home.  He  tells  how  the  young  son  of  the  Duke 
of  Clarence  was  kept  a  prisoner  in  one  of  the  great 

5  gloomy  towers,  by  the  wicked  Duke  of  Gloucester, 
who  afterward  became  King  Richard  III. ;  and  the 
play  ends  with  the  Battle  of  Bosworth  Field,  where 
King  Richard  is  slain. 

We  know  that  Shakespeare  was  fond  of  the  woods 

10  and  the  fields,  for  his  plays  are  filled  with  charming 
descriptions  of  their  beauty.  The  forest  of  Arden  was 
near  Stratford,  and  its  streams  and  woods  filled  him 
with  such  delight  that  when  he  became  a  man  he  made 
them  forever  famous  by   writing  a  play   called  "As 

15  You  Like  It,"  the  most  beautiful  scenes  of  which  are 
laid  in  this  forest. 

He  liked  to  imagine  that  fairies  dwelt  in  the  Arden 
woods,  and  though  he  could  not  see  them  in  their 
frolics,  he  could  picture  them  in  his  brain.     When  he 

20  saw  the  grass  and  flowers  wet  with  dew,  it  pleased  him 
to  think  that  this  had  been  a  task  set  by  the  Queen  of 
the  Fairies  in  the  night  for  her  tiny  subjects.  So  in 
his  play,  "  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  he  makes  a 
fairy  say :  — 

25  <l  Over  hill,  over  dale, 

Thorough  brush,  thorough  brier, 


I  do  wander  everywhere, 
Swifter  than  the  moony  sphere ; 
And  I  serve  the  Fairy  Queen." 


-•8  379  8k 

Then  the  fairy  tells  its  companion  it  must  hasten 
away  to  its  task  :  — 

"  I  must  go  seek  some  dewdrops  here 
And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear." 

Shakespeare  must  have  been  in  the  forest  of  Arden   5 
often  in  the  summer  mornings  and  seen  the  dewdrops 


BIRTHPLACE   OF    SHAKESPEARE. 


clinging  to  the  cowslips  and  glistening  in  the  sunlight 
like  pearls. 

The  exact  day  that  Shakespeare  was  born  is  not  cer- 
tain, but  it  was  about  the  23d  of  April,  and  many  men  10 
who  have  made  a  study  of  the  poet's  life  accept  that 
as  his  birthday.  The  house  in  which  he  was  born  is 
still  standing,  although  it  has,  of  course,  undergone 
many  changes  in  the  last  three  hundred  years. 

During  the  early  boyhood  of  the  poet,  his  father,  is 


-»8  380  8«- 

John  Shakespeare,  was  a  prosperous  tradesman.  He 
was  a  wool  dealer  and  farmer.  When  Shakespeare  was 
four  years  old  his  father  became  high-bailiff,  or  mayor 
of  the  town. 

5  The  future  dramatist  was  sent  to  the  village  school 
at  about  the  age  of  seven.  He  could  already  read, 
having  learned  his  letters  at  home  from  a  very  queer 
primer.  It  was  called  the  "  horn-book,"  because  it 
was  made  of  a  single  printed  leaf,  set  in  a  frame  of 

10  wood  like  our  slates,  and  covered  with  a  thin  plate 
of  horn. 

The  boy  remained  at  school  only  about  six  years. 
His  father  had  failed  in  many  enterprises,  and  it  is 
probable  he  needed  his  son  to  help  him  in  his  work. 

15  Just  what  Shakespeare  learned  at  school  we  do  not 
know,  but  his  writings  show  some  knowledge  of  Greek 
and  Latin,  for  these  languages  were  taught  in  the 
schools  at  that  time. 

It  is  certain  that  Shakespeare's  education  went  on 

20  after  he  left  school.  That  is,  he  learned  something 
from  everything  he  saw*  about  him  and  from  all  that 
he  read.  Even  the  trees  in  the  forest  and  the  streams 
in  the  meadows  taught  him  lessons  about  nature. 
And  this  idea  he  expresses  in  his  own  beautiful  way 

25  in  the  play  "As  You  Like  It,"  when  he  makes  the 
banished  Duke  in  the  forest  of  Arden  say :  — 

"  And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt, 
Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  everything." 


-»6  381  Si- 
It  is  quite  probable  that  John  Shakespeare  uncon- 
sciously decided  the  career  of  his  son,  for  it  was  while 
he  was  mayor  of  Stratford  that  plays  were  first  pre- 
sented there,  and  the  players  must  have  obtained  his 
consent  in  order  to  give  their  performances.  5 

We  can  also  learn  from  his  writings  what  games 
Shakespeare  was  fond  of,  or,  at  least,  what  sports  the 
boys  of  his  time  took  delight  in.  In  Shakespeare's 
"  Comedy  of  Errors  "  he  refers  to  the  game  of  football, 
and  in  the  historical  play  of  "  Julius  Caesar,' '  there  is  10 
a  fine  description  of  a  swimming  match  between  Caesar 
and  Cassius.  Cassius  tells  the  story  to  Brutus  of  how 
Caesar  challenged  him  to  leap  into  the  river  Tiber, 
armed  as  they  were  for  battle :  — 

"  Caesar  said  to  me,  '  Darest  thou,  Cassius,  now  15 

Leap  in  with  me  into  this  angry  flood, 
And  swim  to  yonder  point  ? '     Upon  the  word, 
Accoutered  as  I  was,  I  plunged  in 
And  bade  him  follow ;  so,  indeed,  he  did. 
The  torrent  roar'd  and  we  did  buffet  it  20 

With  lusty  sinews,  throwing  it  aside 
And  stemming  it  with  hearts  of  controversy." 

Cassius  then  tells  how  Caesar's  strength  gave  out  and 
he  cried  for  help,  and  how  Cassius  brought  him  safe  to 
land.  25 

Other  sports  of  Shakespeare's  day  were  archery, 
wrestling,  hunting,  and  falconry,  where  a  bird  called  a 
falcon  was  let  loose  into  the  air  to  pursue  its  prey. 


-»8  382  9«- 

When  Shakespeare  was  in  his  nineteenth  year  he 
married  Anne  Hathaway,  and  a  few  years  later  he  set 
out  to  seek  his  fortune  in  London. 

He  had  played  some  small  parts  on  the  stage  at 
5  Stratford,  and  it  is  not  surprising  that  we  soon  find 
him  among  the  players  in  London,  filling  such  trifling 
parts  as  were  offered  to  him,  and  even,  some  accounts 
say,  holding  horses  at  the  stage  door  to  help  support 
himself  and  his  family. 
10  His  leisure  time  was  spent  in  study.  "  Plutarch's 
Lives "  furnished  him  with  material  for  his  plays  of 
"Julius  Caesar,"  "Antony  and  Cleopatra,"  and  parts, 
at  least,  of  others. 

He  was  a  great  student  of  the  Bible,  so  much  so 

is  that  a  learned  bishop  who  made  a  study  of  his  plays 

found  that  Shakespeare  in  all  his  writings  had  in  five 

hundred  and  fifty  different  places  either  quoted  from 

the  Scriptures  or  referred  to  them. 

Shakespeare  rose  to  fame  rapidly.     He  was  associ- 

20  ated  in  the  building  of  a  new  theater  called  the  Globe, 

where  his  plays  were  acted  before  thousands.     Then 

the  Blackfriars  Theater  was  built,  and  these  two  houses 

divided  the  honor  of  producing  his  plays. 

He  gathered  up  the  history  of  England,  the  gran- 

25  deur  of  its  courts,  the  beauty  of  its  woods  and  fields, 

and  the  deeds  of  its  people,  and  told  of  it  all  in  such 

masterful  dramas  that  his  name  leads  all  other  English 

writers.  # 

The  last  few  years  of  his  life  were  spent  at  Stratford- 


-§8  383  9«- 

on-Avon,  where  he  had  become  a  large  land-owner.    He 
died  in  the  year  1616,  at  the  age  of  fifty-two. 

Nearly  every  great  English  writer  and  poet  ever 
since  has  referred,  in  some  way  or  other,  to  the  plays 
of  Shakespeare.  The  speeches  of  our  statesmen  owe 
much  of  their  strength  and  beauty  to  the  influence  of 
his  writings.  It  has  been  said  that "  Shakespeare  is  like 
a  great  primeval  forest,  whence  timber  shall  be  cut  and 
used  as  long  as  winds  blow  and  leaves  are  green." 


THE  THREE  CASKETS. 

[Abridged.] 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

Belmont.     A  Room  in  Portia's  House.     Three  Caskets  of 
Gold,  Silver,  and  Lead  on  Table. 

Portia,  a  beautiful  and  accomplished  heiress,  is  sought  in  marriage  by  a  large 
number  of  suitors,  whose  fate  is  to  be  determined  by  the  choice  they  make  of  one 
of  three  caskets  — gold,  silver,  and  base  lead. 

The  following  are  the  comments  of  three  of  the  suitors — the  Prince  of 
Morocco,  the  Prince  of  Arragon,  and  Bassanio:  — 

Enter  Portia,  with  the  Prince  of  Morocco. 

Portia. 
Now  make  your  choice. 

Morocco. 
The  first,  of  gold,  which  this  inscription  bears,  — 

Who  chooseth  me  shall  gain  what  many  men  desire  ; 


-»6  384  8<- 

The  second,  silver,  which  this  promise  carries, — 
Who  chooseth  me  shall  get  as  much  as  he  deserves. 

This  third,  dull  lead,  with  warning  all  as  blunt,  — 
Who  chooseth  me  must  give  and  hazard  all  he  hath.  — 

How  shall  I  know  if  I  do  choose  the  right  ? 

Portia. 

The  one  of  them  contains  my  picture,  Prince : 
If  you  choose  that,  then  I  am  yours  withal 

Morocco. 

Some  god  direct  my  judgment !     Let  me  see ; 
I  will  survey  th'  inscriptions  back  again. 
What  says  this  leaden  casket  ? 

Who  chooseth  me  must  give  and  hazard  all  he  hath. 

Must  give,  —  for  what  ?  for  lead  ?  hazard  for  lead  ? 

This  casket  threatens :  men,  that  hazard  all 

Do  it  in  hope  of  fair  advantages. 

A  golden  mind  stoops  not  to  shows  of  dross ; 

I  '11  then  nor  give  nor  hazard  aught  for  lead. 

What  says  the  silver,  with  her  virgin  hue  ? 

Who  chooseth  me  shall  get  as  much  as  he  deserves. 

As  much  as  he  deserves !  —  Pause  there,  Morocco, 
And  weigh  thy  value  with  an  even  hand : 
If  thou  be'st  rated  by  thy  estimation, 
Thou  dost  deserve  enough ;  and  yet  enough 
May  not  extend  so  far  as  to  the  lady : 


-»6  385  8«- 

And  yet  to  be  afeard  of  my  deserving, 
Were  but  a  weak  disabling  of  myself. 
As  much  as  I  deserve  !     Why,  that 's  the  lady : 
I  do  in  birth  deserve  her,  and  in  fortunes, 
In  graces,  and  in  qualities  of  breeding ; 
But,  more  than  these,  in  love  I  do  deserve. 
What  if  I  stray'd  no  further,  but  chose  here  ? 
Let 's  see  once  more  this  saying  graved  in  gold : 
Who  chooseth  me  shall  gain  what  many  men  desire. 

Why,  that 's  the  lady ;  all  the  world  desires  her : 

Deliver  me  the  key ; 

Here  do  I  choose,  and  thrive  I  as  I  may ! 

Portia. 

There,  take  it,  Prince,  and  if  my  form  lie  there, 
Then  I  am  yours.  [Re  unlocks  the  golden  casket. 

Morocco. 

What  have  we  here  ? 

A  carrion  Death,  within  whose  empty  eye 
There  is  a  written  scroll !     I  '11  read  the  writing. 
[Keads]  All  that  glisters  is  not  gold,  — 

Often  have  you  heard  that  told  : 

Many  a  man  his  life  hath  sold, 

But  my  outside  to  behold : 

Gilded  tombs  do  worms  infold. 

Had  you  been  as  wise  as  bold, 

Young  in  limbs,  in  judgment  old, 

Your  answer  had  not  been  inscrolVd  : 

Fare  you  well ;  your  suit  is  cold. 


->S   386  8*- 

Cold,  indeed  ;  and  labor  lost ; 
Then,  farewell,  heat,  and  welcome,  frost !  — 
Portia,  adieu  !  I  have  too  grieved  a  heart 
To  take  a  tedious  leave  :  thus  losers  part. 

[ Exit  with  train. 

Enter  Frince  of  Arragon, 

Portia. 
Behold,  there  stand  the  caskets,  noble  Prince ; 
If  you  choose  that  wherein  I  am  contain' d, 
Straight  shall  our  nuptial  rites  be  solemnized: 
But  if  you  fail,  without  more  speech,  my  lord, 
You  must  be  gone  from  hence  immediately. 

Arragon. 
I  am  enjoin'd  by  oath  to  observe  three  things : 
First,  never  to  unfold  to  any  one 
Which  casket  't  was  I  chose  ;  next,  if  I  fail 
Of  the  right  casket,  never  in  my  life 
To  woo  a  maid  in  way  of  marriage  ;  lastly, 
If  I  do  fail  in  fortune  of  my  choice, 
Immediately  to  leave  you,  and  be  gone. 

Portia. 
To  these  injunctions  everyone  doth  swear 
That  comes  to  hazard  for  my  worthless  self. 

Arragon. 
And  so  have  I  address' d  me.     Fortune  now 
To  my  heart's  hope  !  —  Gold,  silver,  and  base  lead. 

TT7w  rhooseth  me  must  give  and  hazard  all  he  hath. 


-*8  387  9«- 

You  shall  look  fairer,  ere  I  give,  or  hazard. 
What  says  the  golden  chest  ?  ha !  let  me  see  : 

Who  chooseth  me  shall  gain  what  many  men  desire. 

What  many  men  desire !  —  That  many  may  be  meant 
By  the  fool  multitude,  that  choose  by  show, 
Not  learning  more  than  the  fond  eye  doth  teach ; 
Which  pries  not  to  the  interior,  but,  like  the  martlet, 
Builds  in  the  weather  on  the  outward  wall, 
Even  in  the  force  and  road  of  casualty. 
I  will  not  choose  what  many  men  desire, 
Because  I  will  not  jump  with  common  spirits, 
And  rank  me  with  the  barbarous  multitude. 
Why,  then  to  thee,  thou  silver  treasure-house ; 
Tell  me  once  more  what  title  thou  dost  bear : 
Who  chooseth  me  shall  get  as  much  as  he  deserves. 

And  well  said  too  :  for  who  shall  go  about 

To  cozen  fortune,  and  be  honorable 

Without  the  stamp  of  merit  ?     Let  none  presume 

To  wear  an  undeserved  dignity. 

0,  that  estates,  degrees,  and  offices 

Were  not  derived  corruptly !  and  that  clear  honor 

Were  purchased  by  the  merit  of  the  wearer ! 

How  many  then  should  cover,  that  stand  bare ! 

How  many  be  commanded,  that  command ! 

How  much  low  peasantry  would  then  be  glean 'd 

From  the  true  seed  of  honor !  and  how  much  honor 

Pick'd  from  the  chaff  and  ruin  of  the  times, 

To  be  n e w- varnish 'd  !     Well,  but  to  my  choice  : 


-*8  388  8«- 

Who  chooseth  me  shall  get  as  much  as  he  deserves. 

I  will  assume  desert.  —  Give  me  a  key, 
And  instantly  unlock  my  fortunes  here. 

\_He  opens  the  silver  casket 

Portia. 
Too  long  a  pause  for  that  which  you  find  there. 

Arragon. 

What 's  here  ?  the  portrait  of  a  blinking  idiot, 
Presenting  me  a  schedule  !     I  will  read  it.  — 
How  much  unlike  art  thou  to  Portia ! 
How  much  unlike  my  hopes,  and  my  deservings  I 
Who  chooseth  me  shall  have  as  much  as  he  deserves. 

Did  I  deserve  no  more  than  a  fool's  head  ? 
Is  that  my  prize  ?  are  my  deserts  no  better  ? 

Portia. 

T'  offend,  and  judge,  are  distinct  offices, 
And  of  opposed  natures. 

Arragon. 
What  is  here  ? 

The  fire  seven  times  tried  this  : 
Seven  times  tried  that  judgment  is 
That  did  never  choose  amiss. 
Some  there  be,  that  shadows  kiss  ; 
Such  have  but  a  shadow's  bliss : 
There  be  fools  alive,  I  wis, 
Silver 'd  o'er  ;  and  so  was  this. 


.  -*6  389  8«~ 

Still  more  fool  I  shall  appear 

By  the  time  I  linger  here : 

With  one  fool's  head  I  came  to  woo, 

But  I  go  away  with  two.  — 

Sweet,  adieu !  I  '11  keep  my  oath, 

Patiently  to  bear  my  wroth. 

[Exeunt  Arragon  and  Train. 

Enter  Bassanio. 

Bassanio. 

So  may  the  outward  shows  be  least  themselves : 
The  world  is  still  deceived  with  ornament. 
In  law,  what  plea  so  tainted  and  corrupt, 
But,  being  season' d  with  a  gracious  voice, 
Obscures  the  show  of  evil  ? 

There  is  no  vice  so  simple,  but  assumes 
Some  mark  of  virtue  on  its  outward  parts : 
How  many  cowards,  whose  hearts  are  all  as  false 
As  stayers  of  sand,  wear  yet  upon  their  chins 
The  beards  of  Hercules  and  frowning  Mars ; 
Who,  inward  search'd,  have  livers  white  as  milk! 
And  these  assume  but  valor's  excrement, 
To  render  them  redoubted.     Look  on  beauty, 
And  you  shall  see  't  is  purchased  by  the  weight ; 
Which  therein  works  a  miracle  in  nature, 
Making  them  lightest  that  wear  most  of  it : 
So  are  those  crisped  snaky  golden  locks, 


-*8  390  8«- 

Which  make  such  wanton  gambols  with  the  wind, 

Upon  supposed  fairness,  often  known 

To  be  the  dowry  of  a  second  head, 

The  skull  that  bred  them  in  the  sepulcher. 

Thus  ornament  is  but  the  guiled  shore 

To  a  most  dangerous  sea ;  the  beauteous  scarf 

Veiling  an  Indian  feature  ;  in  a  word, 

The  seeming  truth  which  cunning  times  put  on 

T'  entrap  the  wisest.     Therefore,  thou  gaudy  gold, 

Hard  food  for  Midas,  I  will  none  of  thee : 

Nor  none  of  thee,  thou  stale  and  common  drudge 

'Tween  man  and  man :  but  thou,  thou  meager  lead, 

Which  rather  threatenest,  than  dost  promise  aught, 

Thy  plainness  moves  me  more  than  eloquence ; 

And  here  choose  I :  Joy  be  the  consequence  ! 

[Opening  the  leaden  casket 

What  find  I  here  ? 


Fair  Portia's  counterfeit ! 

Here 's  the  scroll, 

The  continent  and  summary  of  my  fortune :  ■ 

You  that  choose  not  by  the  view 
Chance  as  fair,  and  choose  as  true : 
Since  this  fortune  falls  to  you, 
Be  content  and  seek  no  new. 
If  you  be  well  pleased  with  this, 
And  hold  your  fortune  for  your  bliss, 
Turn  you  where  your  lady  is, 
And  claim  her  with  a  loving  £*/«& 


-■8  391  9*- 

Portia. 

You  see  me,  Lord  Bassanio,  where  I  stand, 

Such  as  I  am  :  though,  for  myself  alone, 

I  would  not  be  ambitious  in  my  wish, 

To  wish  myself  much  better ;  yet,  for  you, 

I  would  be  trebled  twenty  times  myself ; 

A  thousand  times  more  fair,  ten  thousand  times  more  rich ; 

That,  only  to  stand  high  on  your  account, 

I  might  in  virtues,  beauties,  livings,  friends, 

Exceed  account :  but  the  full  sum  of  me 

Is  sum  of  —  something ;  which,  to  term  in  gross, 

Is  an  unlesson'd  girl,  unschool'd,  unpracticed : 

Happy  in  this,  she  is  not  yet  so  old 

But  she  may  learn  ;  then  happier  in  this, 

She  is  not  bred  so  dull  but  she  can  learn ; 

Happiest  of  all,  in  that  her  gentle  spirit 

Commits  itself  to  yours  to  be  directed, 

As  from  her  lord,  her  governor,  her  king. 

Myself  and  what  is  mine  to  you  and  yours 

Is  now  converted  :  but  now  I  was  the  lord 

Of  this  fair  mansion,  master  of  my  servants, 

Queen  o'er  myself ;  and  even  now,  but  now, 

This  house,  these  servants,  and  this  same  myself, 

Are  yours,  my  lord  ;  I  give  them  with  this  ring  ; 

Which  when  you  part  from,  lose,  or  give  away, 

Let  it  presage  the  ruin  of  your  love, 

And  be  my  vantage  to  exclaim  on  you. 

From  "  The  Merchant  of  Venice." 


-»8  392  8«- 

QUOTATIONS    FROM    SHAKESPEARE. 

Adversity. 

Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity; 
Which,  like  the  toad,  ugly  and  venomous, 
Wears  yet  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head : 
And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt, 
Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  everything. 

"As  You  Like  It." 
Reputation. 

Good  name  in  man  and  woman,  dear  my  lord, 

Is  the  immediate  jewel  of  their  souls : 

Who   steals   my  purse    steals   trash;    'tis  something, 

nothing ; 
'Twas  mine,  'tis  his,  and  has  been  slave  to  thousands; 
But  he  that  niches  from  me  my  good  name 
Robs  me  of  that  which  not  enriches  him, 
And  makes  me  poor  indeed. 

"Othello." 
Fear  of  Death. 

Cowards  die  many  times  before  their  death ; 

The  valiant  never  taste  of  death  but  once. 

Of  all  the  wonders  that  I  yet  have  heard, 

It  seems  to  me  most  strange  that  men  should  fear ; 

Seeing  that  death,  a  necessary  end, 

Will  come  when  it  will  come. 

"Julius  Caesar." 


SHAKESPEARE'S  POETRY. 

FRANCIS  JEFFREY. 

Francis  Jeffrey  was  born  in  Edinburgh  in  1773  and  died  in 
1850.  He  attended  the  schools  of  his  native  city  and  completed 
his  education  in  the  Universities  of  Glasgow  and  Oxford,  prepar- 
ing himself  for  the  pursuit  of  law. 

He  was  also  a  writer  of  essays  and  criticisms  and  attained    5 
high  rank  as  a  judge  and  writer.     He  was  at  one  time  editor  of 
the  famous  "  Edinburgh  Review." 

Shakespeare  alone,  when  the  object  requires  it, 
is  always  keen  and  worldly  and  practical;  and  yet, 
without  changing  his  hand  or  stopping  his  course,  10 
scatters  around  him,  as  he  goes,  all  sounds  and  shapes 
of  sweetness,  and  conjures  up  landscapes  of  immortal 
fragrance  and  freshness,  and  peoples  them  with  Spir- 
its of  glorious  aspect  and  attractive  grace.  He  is  a 
thousand  times  more  full  of  fancy  and  imagery  and  15 
splendor  than  those  who,  in  pursuit  of  such  enchant- 
ments, have  shrunk  back  from  the  delineation  of  char- 
acter or  passion,  and  declined  the  discussion  of  human 
duties  and  cares. 

More  full  of  wisdom  and  ridicule  and  sagacity  than  20 
all  the  moralists  and  satirists  that  ever  existed,  he  is 
also  more  wild,  airy,  and  inventive,  and  more  pathetic 
and  fantastic,  than  all  the  poets  of  all  regions  and  ages 
of  the  world.  And  he  has  all  those  elements  so  happily 
mixed  up  in  him,  and  bears  his  high  faculties  so  tern-  25 
perately,  that  the  most  severe  reader  cannot  complain 


-»6  394  9«- 

of  him  for  want  of  strength  or  of  reason,  nor  the  most 
sensitive  for  defect  of  ornament  or  ingenuity.  Every- 
thing in  him  is  in  unmeasured  abundance  and  unequaled 
perfection ;  but  everything  is  so  balanced  and  kept  in 
5  subordination,  as  not  to  jostle  or  disturb  or  take  the 
place  of  another. 

The  most  exquisite  poetical  conceptions,  images,  and 
descriptions  are  given  with  such  brevity,  and  introduced 
with  such  skill,  as  merely  to  adorn,  without  loading, 

10  the  sense  they  accompany.  Although  his  sails  are 
purple  and  perfumed,  and  his  prow  of  beaten  gold, 
they  waft  him  on  his  voyage,  not  less,  but  more  rapidly 
and  directly  than  if  they  had  been  composed  of  baser 
materials.     All  his  excellences,  like  those  of  Nature 

is  herself,  are  thrown  out  together ;  and,  instead  of  inter- 
fering with,  support  and  recommend  each  other.  His 
flowers  are  not  tied  up  in  garlands,  nor  his  fruits 
crushed  into  baskets;  but  spring  living  from  the  soil, 
in  all  the  dew  and  freshness  of  youth ;  while  the  grace- 

20  ful  foliage  in  which  they  lurk,  and  the  ample  branches, 
the  rough  and  vigorous  stem,  and  the  wide-spreading 
roots  on  which  they  depend,  are  present  along  with 
tli em,  and  share,  in  their  places,  the  equal  care  of  their 
creator. 


-»B  395  s«- 

HOME. 
HENRY  W.  GRADY. 

Henry  W.  Grady  was  bom  in  Georgia  in  1851.  While  a 
student  at  the  University  of  Georgia,  he  excelled  in  debate.  On 
graduation,  he  determined  to  make  journalism  his  life-work.  As 
the  editor  of  the  "Atlanta  Constitution/'  he  rapidly  grew  into 
prominence  as  a  journalist  and  an  orator.  Mr.  Grady  died  5 
in  1889. 

A  few  days  later  I  visited  a  country  home.  A 
modest,  quiet  house  sheltered  by  great  trees  and  set  in 
a  circle  of  field  and  meadow,  gracious  with  the  promise 
of  harvest ;  barns  and  cribs  well  filled  and  the  old  10 
smoke-house  odorous  with  treasure;  the  fragrance  of 
pink  and  hollyhock  mingling  with  the  aroma  of  garden 
and  orchard  and  resonant  with  the  hum  of  bees  and 
poultry's  busy  clucking ;  inside  the  house,  thrift,  com- 
fort, and  that  cleanliness  that  is  next  to  godliness — the  15 
restful  beds,  the  open  fireplace,  the  books  and  papers, 
and  the  old  clock  that  had  held  its  steadfast  pace  amid 
the  frolic  of  weddings,  that  had  welcomed  in  steady 
measure  the  newborn  babes  of  the  family,  and  kept 
company  with  the  watchers  of  the  sick  bed,  and  had  20 
ticked  the  solemn  requiem  of  the  dead ;  and  the  well- 
worn  Bible  that,  thumbed  by  fingers  long  since  stilled, 
and  blurred  with  tears  of  eyes  long  since  closed,  held 
the  simple  annals  of  the  family  and  the  heart  and  con- 
science of  the  home.  25 


->8  396  9*- 

Outside  stood  the  master,  strong  and  wholesome  and 
upright ;  wearing  no  man's  collar  ;  with  no  mortgage  on 
his  roof  and  no  lien  on  his  ripening  harvest ;  pitching 
his  crops  in  his  own  wisdom  and  selling  them  in  his 

5  own  time  in  his  chosen  market;  master  of  his  lands 
and  master  of  himself.  Near  by  stood  his  aged  father, 
happy  in  the  heart  and  home  of  his  son.  And  as  they 
started  to  the  house,  the  old  man's  hands  rested  on 
the  young  man's  shoulder,  touching  it  with  the  knight- 

10  hood  of  the  fifth  commandment  and  laying  there 
the  unspeakable  blessing  of  an  honored  and  grateful 
father. 

As  they  drew  near  the  door,  the  old  mother  appeared, 
the  sunset  falling  on  her  face,  softening  its  wrinkles 

15  and  its  tenderness,  lighting  up  her  patient  eyes,  and 
the  rich  music  of  her  heart  trembling  on  her  lips,  as 
in  simple  phrase  she  welcomed  her  husband  and  son 
to  their  home.  Beyond  was  the  good  wife,  true  of 
touch  and   tender,  happy  amid  her  household  cares, 

20  clean  of  heart  and  conscience,  the  helpmate  and  the 
buckler  of  her  husband.  And  the  children,  strong  and 
sturdy,  trooping  down  the  lane  with  the  lowing  herd, 
or,  weary  of  simple  sport,  seeking,  as  truant  birds  do, 
the  quiet  of  the  old  home  nest. 

26  And  I  saw  the  night  descend  on  that  home,  falling 
gently  as  from  the  wings  of  the  unseen  dove.  And  the 
stars  swarmed  in  the  bending  skies ;  the  trees  thrilled 
with  the  cricket's  cry ;  the  restless  bird  called  from  the 
neighboring  wood  ;  and  the  father,  a  simple  man  of 


-»8  397  9«- 

God,  gathering  the  family  about  him,  read  from  the 
Bible  the  old,  old  story  of  love  and  faith  and  then 
went  down  in  prayer,  the  baby  hidden  amid  the  folds 
of  its  mother's  dress,  and  closed  the  record  of  that 
simple  day  by  calling  down  the  benediction  of  God  on  5 
the  family  and  the  home ! 

And  as  I  gazed,  the  memory  of  the  great  Capitol 
faded  from  my  brain.  Forgotten  its  treasure  and  its 
splendor.  And  I  said,  "  Surely  here  —  here  in  the 
homes  of  the  people  —  is  lodged  the  ark  of  the  cove-  10 
nant  of  my  country.  Here  is  its  majesty  and  its 
strength ;  here  the  beginning  of  its  power  and  the  end 
of  its  responsibility."  The  homes  of  the  people  —  let 
us  keep  them  pure  and  independent,  and  all  will  be 
well  with  the  Republic.  Here  is  the  lesson  our  foes  15 
may  learn  —  here  is  work  the  humblest  and  weakest 
hands  may  do. 

Let  us  in  simple  thrift  and  economy  make  our  homes 
independent.  Let  us  in  frugal  industry  make  them 
self-sustaining.  In  sacrifice  and  denial  let  us  keep  20 
them  free  from  debt  and  obligation.  Let  us  make 
them  homes  of  refinement  in  which  we  shall  teach 
our  daughters  that  modesty  and  patience  and  gentle- 
ness are  the  charms  of  woman.  Let  us  make  them 
temples  of  liberty,  and  teach  our  sons  that  an  honest  25 
conscience  is  every  man's  first  political  law;  that  his 
sovereignty  rests  beneath  his  hat,  and  that  no  splendor 
can  rob  him  and  no  force  justify  the  surrender  of  the 
simplest  right  of  a  free  and  independent  citizen.     And 


-*6  398  3t~ 

above  all,  let  us  honor  God  in  our  homes  —  anchor 
them  close  in  His  love.  Build  His  altars  above  our 
hearthstones,  uphold  them  in  the  set  and  simple  faith 
of  our  fathers,  and  crown  them  with  the  Bible  —  that 
5  book  of  books  in  which  all  the  ways  of  life  are  made 
straight  and  the  mystery  of  death  is  made  plain. 

Let  us  keep  sacred  the  Sabbath  of  God  in  its  purity, 
and  have  no  city  so  great,  or  village  so  small,  that 
every  Sunday  morning  shall   not   stream   forth   over 

10  towns  and  meadows  the  golden  benediction  of  the 
bells,  as  they  summon  the  people  to  the  churches  of 
their  fathers,  and  ring  out  in  praise  of  God  and  the 
power  of  His  might.  Let  us  keep  the  states  of  this 
Union  in  the  current  of  the  sweet  old-fashioned,  that 

15  the  sweet  rushing  waters  may  lap  their  sides,  and  every- 
where from  their  soil  grow  the  tree,  the  leaf  whereof 
shall  not  fade,  and  the  fruit  whereof  shall  not  die. 

Let  us  remember  that  the  home  is  the  source  of  our 
national  life.     Back  of  the  national  Capitol  and  above 

20  it  stands  the  home.  Back  of  the  President  and  above 
him  stands  the  citizen.  What  the  home  is,  this  and 
nothing  else  will  the  Capitol  be.  What  the  citizen 
wills,  this  and  nothing  else  will  the  President  be. 


-*6  399  9«- 

A   PALACE   IN   A  VALLEY. 
DR.   SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 

Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  was  born  at  Lichfield,  England,  in 
1709,  and  died  in  1784. 

He  was  educated  at  Oxford,  where  he  gained  honor  as  a 
student  in  spite  of  his  poverty  and  defective  eyesight. 

After  leaving  college  Johnson  held  a  position  as  an  usher,    5 
and  later  was  employed  by  some  booksellers. 

He  gradually  began  a  literary  life,  publishing  some  poems, 
and  then  conducted  "  The  Rambler "  and  "  The  Idler,"  two 
periodicals. 

He  wrote  the  story  of  "Rasselas"  to  pay  the  expenses  of  10 
his  mother's  funeral.     His  greatest  work  was  a  Dictionary  of 
the  English  Language. 

Dr.  Johnson's  character  was  a  strange  union  of  strength  and 
weakness.     His  manners  were  uncouth,  but  his  conversation  was 
rich  in  wit  and  wisdom.     His  genius  was  recognized  during  the  15 
latter  years  of  his  life. 

Ye  who  listen  with  credulity  to  the  whispers  of  fancy 
and  pursue  with  eagerness  the  phantoms  of  hope ;  who 
expect  that  age  will  perform  the  promises  of  youth,  and 
that  the  deficiencies  of  the  present  day  will  be  supplied  20 
by  the  morrow,  —  attend  to  the  history  of  Rasselas, 
Prince  of  Abyssinia. 

Rasselas  was  the  fourth  son  of  the  mighty  emperor 
in  whose  dominions  the  Father  of  Waters  begins  his 
course  ^  whose  bounty  pours  down  the  streams  of  plenty  25 
and  scatters  over  half  the  world  the  harvests  of  Egypt. 

According  to  the  custom  which  has  descended  from 
age  to  age  among  the  monarchs  of  the  torrid  zone, 


■4Q  4-00  &~ 

Rasselas  was   confined   in  a  private  palace,  with   the 

other  sons  and  daughters  of  Abyssinian  royalty,  till 

the  order  of  succession  should  call  him  to  the  throne. 

The  place  which  the  wisdom  or  policy  of  antiquity 

5  had  destined  for  the  residence  of  the  Abyssinian  princes 
was  a  spacious  valley  in  the  kingdom  of  Amhara,  sur- 
rounded on  every  side  by  mountains,  of  which  the 
summits  overhang  the  middle  part.  The  only  passage 
by  which  it  could  be  entered  was  a  cavern  that  passed 

10  under  a  rock.  The  outlet  of  the  cavern  was  concealed 
by  a  thick  wood,  and  the  mouth  which  opened  into  the 
valley  was  closed  with  gates  of  iron. 

From  the  mountains  on  every  side  rivulets  descended 
that  filled  all  the  valley  with  verdure  and  fertility,  and 

15  formed  a  lake  in  the  middle  inhabited  by  fish  of  every 
species,  and  frequented  by  every  fowl  whom  Nature 
has  taught  to  dip  the  wing  in  water.  This  lake  dis- 
charged its  superfluities  by  a  stream  which  entered  a 
dark  cleft  of  the  mountain  on  the  northern  side,  and 

20  fell  with  dreadful  noise  from  precipice  to  precipice  till 
it  was  heard  no  more. 

The  sides  of  the  mountains  were  covered  with  trees, 
the  banks  of  the  brooks  were  diversified  with  flowers ; 
every  blast  shook  spices  from   the  rocks,  and   every 

25  month  dropped  fruits  upon  the  ground.  All  animals 
that  bite  the  grass,  or  browse  the  shrub,  whether  wild 
or  tame,  wandered  in  this  extensive  circuit,  secured 
from  beasts  of  prey  by  the  mountains  which  confined 
them.     On  one  part  were  flocks  and  herds  feeding  in 


-*6  4-oi  8<- 

the  pastures;  on  another,  all  beasts  of  chase  frisking 
in  the  lawns.  All  the  diversities  of  the  world  were 
brought  together,  the  blessings  of  nature  were  collected, 
and  its  evils  extracted  and  excluded. 

The  valley,  wide  and  fruitful,  supplied  its  inhabitants   5 
with  the  necessaries  of  life,  and  all  delights  and  super- 
fluities were  added  at  the  annual  visit  which  the  emperor 
paid  his  children,  when  the  iron  gate  was  opened  to  the 
sound  of  music ;  and  during  eight  days  every  one  that 
resided  in  the  valley  was  required  to  propose  whatever  10 
might  contribute  to  make  seclusion  pleasant,  to  fill  up 
the  vacancies  of  attention,  and  lessen  the  tediousness 
of  time.     Every  desire  was  immediately  granted.     All 
the  artificers  of   pleasure  were  called   to  gladden  the 
festivity ;  the  musicians  exerted  the  power  of  harmony,  15 
and  the  dancers  showed  their  activity  before  the  princes, 
in  hope  that  they  should  pass  their  lives  in  this  blissful 
captivity,  to  which  those  only  were  admitted  whose 
performance  was  thought  able  to  add  novelty  to  luxury. 
Such  was  the  appearance  of  security  and  delight  which  20 
this  retirement  afforded,  that  they  to  whom  it  was  new 
always  desired  that  it  might  be  perpetual ;  and  as  those 
on  whom  the  iron  gate  had  once  closed  were  never 
suffered  to  return,  the  effect  of  long  experience  could 
not  be  known.     Thus  every  year  produced  new  schemes  25 
of  delight  and  new  competitors  for  imprisonment. 

The  palace  stood  on  an  eminence  raised  about  thirty 
paces  above  the  surface  of  the  lake.  It  was  divided 
into  many  squares  or  courts,  built  with  greater  or  less 


-i8  402  8«- 

magnificence,  according  to  the  rank  of  those  for  whom 
they  were  designed.  The  roofs  were  turned  into  arches 
of  massy  stone,  joined  by  a  cement  that  grew  harder  by 
time,  and  the  building  stood  from  century  to  century 

5  deriding  the  rains  and  equinoctial  hurricanes,  without 
need  of  reparation. 

This  house,  which  was  so  large  as  to  be  fully  known 
to  none  but  some  ancient  officers  who  successively  in- 
herited the  secrets  of  the  place,  was  built  as  if  suspicion 

10  herself  had  dictated  the  plan.  To  every  room  there 
was  an  open  and  secret  passage;  every  square  had  a 
communication  with  the  rest,  either  from  the  upper 
stories  by  private  galleries,  or  by  subterranean  passages 
from  the  lower  apartments.     Many  of  the  columns  had 

15  unsuspected  cavities,  in  which  a  long  race  of  monarchs 
had  deposited  their  treasures.  They  then  closed  up 
the  opening  with  marble,  which  was  never  to  be  re- 
moved but  in  the  utmost  exigencies  of  the  kingdom ; 
and  recorded  their  accumulations  in  a  book  which  was 

20  itself  concealed  in  a  tower  not  entered  but  by  the 
emperor,  attended  by  the  prince  who  stood  next  in 
succession. 

Here  the  sons  and  daughters  of  Abyssinia  lived  only 
to  know  the  soft  vicissitudes  of  pleasure  and  repose, 

25  attended  by  all  that  were  skilful  to  delight,  and 
gratified  with  whatever  the  senses  can  enjoy.  They 
wandered  in  gardens  of  fragrance  and  slept  in  the 
fortresses  of  security.  Every  art  was  practiced  to 
make  them  pleased  with  their  own  condition.     The 


-*B  403  3«- 

sages  who  instructed  them  told  them  of  nothing  but 
the  miseries  of  public  life,  and  described  all  beyond 
the  mountains  as  regions  of  calamity,  where  discord 
was  always  raging,  and  where  man  preyed  upon  man. 

To  heighten  their  opinion  of  their  own  felicity,  they  5 
were  daily  entertained  with  songs,  the  subject  of  which 
was  the  happy  valley.  Their  appetites  were  excited 
by  frequent  enumerations  of  different  enjoyments,  and 
revelry  and  merriment  was  the  business  of  every  hour 
from  the  dawn  of  morning  to  the  close  of  even.  10 

These  methods  were  generally  successful ;  few  of  the 
princes  had  ever  wished  to  enlarge  their  bounds,  but 
passed  their  lives  in  full  conviction  that  they  had  all 
within  their  reach  that  art  or  nature  could  bestow,  and 
pitied  those  whom  fate  had  excluded  from  this  seat  of  15 
tranquillity. 

Thus  they  rose  in  the  morning  and  lay  down  at 
night,  pleased  with  each  other  and  with  themselves, — 
all  but  Rasselas,  who,  in  the  twenty-sixth  year  of  his 
age,  began  to  withdraw  himself  from  their  pastimes  20 
and  assemblies,  and  to  delight  in  solitary  walks  and 
silent  meditation.  He  often  sat  before  tables  covered 
with  luxury,  and  forgot  to  taste  the  dainties  that  were 
placed  before  him ;  he  rose  abruptly  in  the  midst  of 
the  song  and  hastily  retired  beyond  the  sound  of  music.  25 
His  attendants  observed  the  change  and  endeavored  to 
renew  his  love  of  pleasure.  He  neglected  their  onicious- 
ness,  repulsed  their  invitations,  and  spent  day  after  day 
on  the  banks  of  rivulets  sheltered  with  trees,  where 


-i8  404  9«~ 

he  sometimes  listened  to  the  birds  in  the  branches, 
sometimes  observed  the  fish  playing  in  the  stream,  and 
anon  cast  his  eyes  upon  the  pastures  and  mountains 
filled  with  animals. 

5  This  singularity  of  his  humor  made  him  much  ob- 
served. One  of  the  sages,  in  whose  conversation  he 
had  formerly  delighted,  followed  him  secretly,  in  hope 
of  discovering  the  cause  of  his  disquiet.  Rasselas,  who 
knew  not  that  any  one  was  near  him,  having  for  some 

10  time  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  goats  that  were  browsing 
among  the  rocks,  began  to  compare  their  condition 
with  his  own. 

"What,"  said   he,  "makes   the  difference  between 
man  and  all  the  rest  of  the  animal  creation?     Every 

15  beast  that  strays  beside  me  has  the  same  bodily 
necessities  with  myself;  he  is  hungry  and  crops  the 
grass,  he  is  thirsty  and  drinks  the  stream ;  his  thirst 
and  hunger  are  appeased,  he  is  satisfied  and  sleeps ;  he 
rises  again  and  is  hungry;  he  is  again  fed  and  is  at 

20  rest.  I  am  hungry  and  thirsty,  like  him ;  but  when 
thirst  and  hunger  cease,  I  am  not  at  rest ;  I  am,  like 
him,  pained  with  want ;  but  am  not,  like  him,  satisfied 
with  fullness.  The  intermediate  hours  are  tedious  and 
gloomy ;  I  long  again  to  be  hungry,  that  I  may  again 

25  quicken  my  attention.  The  birds  peck  the  berries  or 
the  corn,  and  fly  away  to  the  groves,  where  they  sit 
in  seeming  happiness  on  the  branches  and  waste  their 
lives  in  tuning  one  unvaried  series  of  sounds.  I  like- 
wise can  call  the  lutanist  and  singer,  but  the  sounds 


that  pleased  me  yesterday  weary  me  to-day,  and  will 
grow  more  wearisome  to-morrow.  I  can  discover 
within  me  no  power  of  perception  which  is  not  glutted 
with  its  proper  pleasure,  yet  I  do  not  feel  myself  de- 
lighted. Man  surely  has  some  latent  sense  for  which  s 
this  place  affords  no  gratification,  or  he  has  some  desires 
distinct  from  sense,  which  must  be  satisfied  before  he 
can  be  happy." 

After  this  he  lifted  up  his  head,  and,  seeing  the  moon 
rising,  walked  toward  the  palace.  As  he  passed  through  10 
the  fields  and  saw  the  animals  around  him,  "  Ye,"  said 
he,  "are  happy,  and  need  not  envy  me  that  walk  thus 
among  you,  burdened  with  myself ;  nor  do  I,  ye  gentle 
beings,  envy  your  felicity,  for  it  is  not  the  felicity  of 
man.  I  have  many  distresses  from  which  ye  are  free ;  15 
I  fear  pain  when  I  do  not  feel  it;  surely  the  equity 
of  Providence  has  balanced  peculiar  sufferings  with 
peculiar  enjoyments." 

With  observations  like  these  the  prince  amused  him- 
self- as  he  returned,  uttering  them  with  a  plaintive  20 
voice,  yet  with  a  look  that  discovered  him  to  feel  some 
complacence  in  his  own  perspicacity,  and  to  receive 
some  solace  of  the  miseries  of  life  from  consciousness 
of  the  delicacy  with  which  he  bewailed  them.  He 
mingled  cheerfully  in  the  diversions  of  the  evening,  25 
and  all  rejoiced  to  find  that  his  heart  was  lightened. 

From  "  liasselas.  " 


-»g  406  §- 


TRUE  HEROISM. 


Let  others  write  of  battles  fought, 

Of  bloody,  ghastly  fields, 
Where  honor  greets  the  man  who  wins, 

And  death  the  man  who  yields ; 
But  I  will  write  of  him  who  fights 

And  vanquishes  his  sins, 
Who  struggles  on  through  weary  years 

Against  himself,  and  wins. 

He  is  a  hero  stanch  and  brave 

Who  fights  an  unseen  foe, 
And  puts  at  last  beneath  his  feet 

His  passions  base  and  low ; 
Who  stands  erect  in  manhood's  might, 

Undaunted,  undismayed,  — 
The  bravest  man  who  drew  a  sword 

In  foray  or  in  raid. 

It  calls  for  something  more  than  brawn 

Or  muscle  to  o'ercome 
An  enemy  who  marcheth  not 

With  banner,  plume,  or  drum,  — 
A  foe  forever  lurking  nigh, 

With  silent,  stealthy  tread ; 
Forever  near  your  board  by  day, 

At  night  beside  your  bed. 


-»6  407  8«- 

All  honor,  then,  to  that  brave  heart, 

Though  poor  or  rich  he  be, 
Who  struggles  with  his  baser  part,  — 

Who  conquers  and  is  free ! 
He  may  not  wear  a  hero's  crown, 

Or  fill  a  hero's  grave ; 
But  truth  will  place  his  name  among 

The  bravest  of  the  brave. 


THE  PEN. 

EDWARD  BULWER  LYTTON. 

Beneath  the  rule  of  men  entirely  great 

The  pen  is  mightier  than  the  sword.     Behold 

The  arch  enchanter's  wand !  —  itself  a  nothing 

But  taking  sorcery  from  the  master's  hand 

To  paralyze  the  Caesars  and  to  strike 

The  loud  earth  breathless !     Take  away  the  sword  ■ 

States  can  be  saved  without  it. 

From  "Richelieu." 


-*S  4-08  8<- 


MOUNT    VERNON,    THE    HOME    OF    WASHINGTON. 


CHARACTER  OF  WASHINGTON. 


GEORGE  BANCROFT. 


10 


George  Bancroft  was  born  at  Worcester,  Mass.,  in  1800  and 
died  in  1891. 

He  was  graduated  from  Harvard  College  when  he  was  seven- 
teen, bearing  off  the  second  honors  of  his  class. 

The  following  year  he  sailed  for  Europe  and  spent  five  years 
studying  under  the  most  learned  professors  in  Germany,  France, 
and  Italy. 

On  his  return  to  America  he  became  a  tutor  at  Harvard  and 
was  afterwards  connected  with  a  classical  school  at  Northampton. 

He  was  deeply  interested  in  the  affairs  of  the  nation,  but 
refused  to  enter  public  life,  as  he  had  decided  to  write  a  history 
of  the  United  States. 

The  first  volume  of  this  history  appeared  in  1834,  and  the 
series  occupied  his  time  for  many  years. 


-»8  4-09  8«- 

Mr.  Bancroft  held  the  position  of  secretary  of  the  navy  for 
about  a  year  under  President  Polk.  It  was  due  to  his  efforts 
that  the  Naval  Academy  at  Annapolis,  Md.,  was  established. 

He  was  appointed  minister  to  England  in  1846  and  remained 
abroad  for  three  years.  5 

He  returned  to  this  country  and  resumed  his  literary  work. . 
In  1867  he  was  appointed  minister  to  Berlin  by  President  Grant. 

The  "  History  of  the  United  States "  is  without  a  rival.     It 
is  generally  accepted  as  an  authority.     Mr.  Bancroft  spared  no 
pains  in  his  researches   among  old  manuscripts,  and  his  style  10 
is  full  of  interest. 


At  eleven  years  old,  left,  an  orphan,  to  the  care  of  an 
excellent  but  unlettered  mother,  Washington  grew  up 
without  learning.  Of  arithmetic  and  geometry  he  ac- 
quired just  knowledge  enough  to  be  able  to  practice  is 
measuring  land ;  but  all  his  instruction  at  school  taught 
him  not  so  much  as  the  orthography  or  rules  of  grammar 
of  his  own  tongue.  His  culture  was  altogether  his  own 
work,  and  he  was  in  the  strictest  sense  a  self-made  man ; 
yet  from  his  early  life  he  never  seemed  uneducated.  At  20 
sixteen  he  went  into  the  wilderness  as  surveyor,  and 
for  three  years  continued  the  pursuit,  where  the  forest 
trained  him,  in  meditative  solitude,  to  freedom  and 
largeness  of  mind ;  and  Nature  revealed  to  him  her 
obedience  to  serene  and  silent  laws.  25 

In  his  intervals  from  toil,  he  seemed  always  to  be 
attracted  to  the  best  men,  and  to  be  cherished  by  them. 
Fairfax,  his  employer,  an  Oxford  scholar,  already  aged, 
became  his  fast  friend.  He  read  little,  but  with  close 
attention.     Whatever  he  took  in  hand,  he  applied  him-  30 


-*6  410  8«- 

self  to  with  care  ;  and  his  papers,  which  have  been 
preserved,  show  how  he  almost  imperceptibly  gained 
the  power  of  writing  correctly  ;  always  expressing  him- 
self with  clearness  and  directness,  often  with  felicity  of 

5  language  and  grace. 

Courage  was  so  natural  to  him  that  it  was  hardly 
spoken  of  to  his  praise ;  no  one  ever  at  any  moment 
of  his  life  discovered  in  him  the  least  shrinking  from 
danger;    and   he   had  a   hardihood   of   daring   which 

10  escaped  notice,  because  it  was  so  enveloped  by  superior 
calmness  and  wisdom. 

He  was  as  cheerful  as  he  was  spirited;  frank  and 
communicative  in  the  society  of  friends;  fond  of  the 
fox-chase  and  the  dance ;  often  sportive  in  his  letters ; 

15  and  liked  a  hearty  laugh.  This  joyousness  of  disposi- 
tion remained  to  the  last,  though  the  vastness  of  his 
responsibilities  was  soon  to  take  from  him  the  right  of 
displaying  the  impulsive  qualities  of  his  nature,  and  the 
weight  which  he  was  to  bear  up  was  to  overlay  and 

20  repress  his  gayety  and  openness. 

His  hand  was  liberal;  giving  quietly  and  without 
observation,  as  though  he  were  ashamed  of  nothing  but 
being  discovered  in  doing  good.  He  was  kindly  and 
compassionate,  and  of  lively  sensibility  to  the  sorrows 

25  of  others;  so  that,  if  his  country  had  only  needed  a 
victim  for  its  relief,  he  would  have  willingly  offered 
himself  as  a  sacrifice.  But  while  he  was  prodigal  of 
himself,  he  was  considerate  for  others ;  ever  parsimonious 
of  the  blood  of  his  countrymen. 


-»8  4-1 1  8<- 

His  faculties  were  so  well  balanced  and  combined 
that  his  constitution,  free  from  excess,  was  tempered 
evenly  with  all  the  elements  of  activity,  and  his  mind 
resembled  a  well-ordered  commonwealth ;  his  passions, 
which  had  the  intensest  vigor,  owned  allegiance  to  5 
reason ;  and  with  all  the  fiery  quickness  of  his  spirit 
his  impetuous  and  massive  will  was  held  in  check  by 
consummate  judgment.  He  had  in  his  composition  a 
calm  which  gave  him,  in  moments  of  highest  excite- 
ment, the  power  of  self-control,  and  enabled  him  to  10 
excel  in  patience,  even  when  he  had  most  cause  for 
disgust.  Washington  was  offered  a  command  when 
there  was  little  to  bring  out  the  unorganized  resources 
of  the  continent  but  his  own  influence,  and  authority 
was  connected  with  the  people  by  the  most  frail,  most  15 
attenuated,  scarcely  discernible  threads ;  yet,  vehement 
as  was  his  nature,  impassioned  as  was  his  courage,  he 
so  restrained  his  ardor,  that  he  never  failed  contin- 
uously to  exert  the  attracting  power  of  that  influence, 
and  never  exerted  it  so  sharply  as  to  break  its  force.      20 

His  understanding  was  lucid,  and  his  judgment  accu- 
rate ;  so  that  his  conduct  never  betrayed  hurry  or 
confusion.  No  detail  was  too  minute  for  his  personal 
inquiry  and  continued  supervision;  and  at  the  same 
time  he  comprehended  events  in  their  widest  aspects  and  25 
relations.  He  never  seemed  above  the  object  that  en- 
gaged his  attention ;  and  he  was  always  equal,  without 
an  effort,  to  the  solution  of  the  highest  questions,  even 
when  there  existed  no  precedents  to  guide  his  decision. 


-»8  412  St- 
ill this  way  he  never  drew  to  himself  admiration  for 
the  possession  of  any  one  quality  in  excess  ;  never 
made  in  council  any  one  suggestion  that  was  sublime 
but  impracticable  ;  never  in  action  took  to  himself  the 
5  praise  or  the  blame  of  undertakings  astonishing  in  con- 
ception, but  beyond  his  means  of  execution.  It  was 
the  most  wonderful  accomplishment  of  this  man  that, 
placed  upon  the  largest  theater  of  events,  at  the  head 
of  the  greatest  revolution  in  human  affairs,  he  never 

10  failed  to  observe  all  that  was  possible,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  bound  his  aspirations  by  that  which  was 
possible. 

Profoundly  impressed  with  confidence  in  God's  provi- 
dence,  and   exemplary  in   his  respect  for   the  forms 

is  of  public  worship,  no  philosopher  of  the  eighteenth 
century  was  more  firm  in  the  support  of  freedom  of 
religious  opinion ;  none  more  tolerant,  or  more  remote 
from  bigotry ;  but  belief  in  God  and  trust  in  His  over- 
ruling  power    formed    the    essence    of   his  character. 

20  Divine  wisdom  not  only  illumines  the  spirit,  it  inspires 
the  will.  Washington  was  a  man  of  action,  and  not  of 
theory  or  words ;  his  creed  appears  in  his  life,  not  in 
his  professions,  which  burst  from  him  very  rarely,  and 
only  at  those  great  moments  of  crisis  in  the  fortunes  of 

25  his  country,  when  Earth  and  Heaven  seemed  actually 
to  meet,  and  his  emotions  became  too  intense  for  sup- 
pression; but  his  whole  being  was  one  continued  act 
of  faith  in  the  eternal,  intelligent,  moral  order  of  the 
Universe.     Integrity   was    so   completely    the   law  of 


-*8  413  8**- 

his  nature,  that  a  planet  would  sooner  have  shot  from 
its  sphere,  than  he  have  departed  from  his  uprightness, 
which  was  so  constant  that  it  often  seemed  to  be 
almost  impersonal. 

They  say  of  Giotto,  that  he  introduced  goodness  into    5 
the  art  of  painting :  Washington  carried  it  with  him 
to  the  camp  and  the  cabinet,  and  established  a  new 
criterion  of  human  greatness.     The  purity  of  his  will 
confirmed  his  fortitude  ;  and,  as  he  never  faltered  in 
his  faith  in  virtue,  he  stood  fast  by  that  which  he  knew  io 
to  be  just ;  free  from  illusions  ;  never  dejected  by  the 
apprehension  of  the  difficulties  and  perils  that  went 
before  him  ;  and  drawing  the  promise  of  success  from 
the  justice  of  his  cause.     Hence  he  was  persevering, 
leaving   nothing   unfinished;    free   from   all   taint    of  15 
obstinacy  in  his  firmness ;  seeking  and  gladly  receiving 
advice,  but  immovable  in  his  devotedness  to  right. 

Of  a  "retiring  modesty  and  habitual  reserve,"  his 
ambition  was  no  more  than  the  consciousness  of  his 
power,  and  was  subordinate  to  his  sense  of  duty;  he  20 
took  the  foremost  place,  for  he  knew,  from  inborn 
magnanimity,  that  it  belonged  to  him,  and  he  dared 
not  withhold  the  service  required  of  him ;  so  that,  with 
all  his  humility,  he  was  by  necessity  the  first,  though 
never  for  himself  or  for  private  ends.  He  loved  fame,  25 
the  approval  c>f  coming  generations,  the  good  opinion 
of  his  fellow-men  of  his  own  time ;  and  he  desired  to 
make  his  conduct  coincide  with  their  wishes ;  but  not 
fear  of  censure,  not  the  prospect  of  applause,  could 


-»6  414  Si- 
tempt  him  to  swerve  from  rectitude;   and  the  praise 
which  he  coveted  was  the   sympathy  of  that  moral 
sentiment  which  exists  in  every  human  breast,  and  goes 
forth  only  to  the  welcome  of  virtue. 

5  This  also  is  the  praise  of  Washington,  that  never  in 
the  tide  of  time  has  any  man  lived  who  had  in  so  great 
a  degree  the  almost  divine  faculty  to  command  the  con- 
fidence of  his  fellow-men  and  rule  the  willing.  Where- 
ever  he  became  known,  in  his  family,  his  neighborhood, 

10  his  county,  his  native  state,  the  continent,  the  camp, 
civil  life,  the  United  States,  among  the  common  people, 
in  foreign  courts,  throughout  the  civilized  world  of  the 
human  race,  and  even  among  the  savages,  he,  beyond 
all  other  men,  had  the  confidence  of  his  kind. 


-*6  415  8«- 

NATIONAL  HYMN. 

SAMUEL  FRANCIS  SMITH. 

Samuel  Francis  Smith  was  born  in  Boston  in  1808,  and  died 
in  1895. 

He  attended  the  Boston  Latin  School,  was  graduated  at  Har- 
vard College,  and  then  studied  for  the  ministry  at  the  Andover 
Theological  Seminary.  While  in  Harvard  he  was  a  classmate  of  5. 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  At  a  reunion  of  his  class,  held  many 
years  after  they  had  left  college,  Holmes  read  a  poem  which  he 
had  written  for  the  occasion,  called  "  The  Boys,"  and  spoke  of 
Mr.  Smith  in  these  words  : 

"  He  chanted  a  song  for  the  brave  and  the  free,  10 

Just  read  on  his  medal,  «  My  Country,  of  thee.'  " 

He  referred  to  the  poem  beginning  "  My  country,  't  is  of  thee," 
the  national  hymn  of  America,  written  by  Mr.  Smith  when  he 
was  a  young  theological  student,  and  first  sung  at  a  children's 
celebration,  held  on  one  Fourth  of   July,  in  the  Park  Street  15 
Church,  Boston. 

A  collection  of  his  hymns  and  poems  has  been  published  under 
the  title  of  "  Lyric  Gems." 

My  country,  't  is '  of  thee, 
Sweet  land  of  liberty, 

Of  thee  I  sing; 
Land  where  my  fathers  died, 
Land  of  the  pilgrim's  pride, 
From  every  mountain  side 

Let  freedom  ring. 


My  native  country,  thee  — 
Land  of  the  noble  free  — 

Thy  name  I  love; 
I  love  thy  rocks  and  rills, 
Thy  woods  and  templed  hills. 
My  heart  with  rapture  thrills 

Like  that  above. 

Let  music  swell  the  breeze, 
And  ring  from  all  the  trees 

Sweet  freedom's  song; 
Let  mortal  tongues  awake ; 
Let  all  that  breathe  partake; 
Let  rocks  their  silence  break - 

The  sound  prolong. 

Our  fathers'  God,  to  thee, 
Author  of  liberty, 

To  thee  we  sing: 
Long  may  our  land  be  bright 
With  freedom's  holy  light; 
Protect  us  by  thy  might, 

Great  God,  our  King. 


GUIDE   TO   PRONUNCIATION. 


A  key  to  the  symbols  most  of  which  are  used  in  this  Reader  to  indicate 
the  pronunciation  of  the  more  difficult  words. 

I.     VOWELS. 


a  as  in 

fate 

a 

as  in 

care 

t 

as  in 

idea 

00  as  in  food 

&      " 

senate 

e 

(< 

mete 

i 

M 

it 

do 

U 

fd6t 

a      " 

fat 

t 

u 

event 

1 

U 

sir 

u 

« 

use 

a      " 

arni 

e 

a 

met 

0 

(( 

old 

ii 

M 

tinite 

a      " 

all 

e 

ti 

her 

t 

« 

obey 

u 

U 

up 

a      " 

ask 

i 

it 

Ice 

6 

« 

not 

u 

« 

fur 

II.     EQUIVALENTS 

a  =  6 

as  in  what 

O 

=  06  as  in 

wolf 

11 

=  06  as  in  pull 

e  =  a 

"     there 

6 

=  u 

u 

son 

y 

=  1 

"    fly 

I  =  e 

"     girl 

6 

=  a 

K 

hdrse 

y 

=  i 

"     baby 

0  =  00"     move 

11 

=  00 

u 

rule 

III.     CONSONANTS. 

Only  the  most  difficult  consonants  in  this  Reader  are  marked  with  dia- 
critical signs.  The  following  table  may  prove  useful  to  the  teacher  for 
reference   and  for   blackboard   work. 


c  =  s  as  in  mice 
•e  or  c  (unmarked)  =  k  as  in  -call 
•ch  =  k  as  in  school 

ch  (unmarked)    "     child 


th  (unmarked)      as  in  thin 


g  like  j 
g  (hard) 
11  =  ngr 
tlr 


cage 
get 
ink 
them 


ph  =  f                        « 

phantom 

s  =  z                         « 

is 

z  (like  s  sonant)      " 

zone 

qu  (unmarked)        " 

quite 

x  =  gz                     « 

exact 

-4. 

x  (unmarked)  =ks  M 

vex 

Certain  vowels,  as  a  and  e,  when  obscured  and  turned  toward  the  neutral 
sound,  are  marked  thus,  a,  e,  etc.     Silent  letters  are  italicized. 


-»6  4-18  &- 


WORD    LIST. 


>>Kc 


The  following  is  an  alphabetical  list  of  the  most  difficult  words 
used  in  this  Reader. 

The  less  difficult  words  that  have  been  used  in  the  Primer, 
First,  Second,  Third,  and  Fourth  Readers  are  omitted. 

This  list  may  be  made  the  basis  of  a  great  variety  of  exercises 
in  correct  pronunciation,  distinct  enunciation,  rapid  spelling,  lan- 
guage lessons,  and  review  work. 

For  an  explanation  of  the  diacritical  marks,  see  preceding 
page. 

The  syllable  tion  is  not  re-spelled  in  this  list,  but  wherever  it 
occurs  should  be  pronounced  shun. 


ab  di  ca'  tion 
ab  horred' 
ab'  so  lute  ly 
ab  stract'  ed 
a  bys$' 

ac  eel'  er  at  ed 
ac  c5m'  mo  date 
ac  count'  ant 
ac  cour  tered 
ac  couf  ter  ments 
ac  cu'  mu  lat  ed 
ad'  ju  tants 


ad  mm  is  tra'  tion 

ad'  mi  ral 

ad  6  ra'  tion 

a  droit' 

ad  van'  tag  es 

ad  ver'  si  ty 

ad  ver'  tise  ment 

ad'  vo  cate 

af  flic'  tion 

air'ily 

al'  ba  tross 

al  le'  gi&nqe 


al  le  gor'  ic  al 
al  11'  anc,e 
allied' 

al  low'  ang  es 
alZ-per  vad'  ing 
al  lured' 
al  ter'  nate  ly 
am  bas'  sa  dor 
amf  bling 
am  bus  cade' 
am'  phi  the  a  ter 
a  nal'  6  gies 


^8  419  9<- 


an'  cho  rage 
an'  ec  dotes 
an' i  mat  ed 
an  ni  ver'  sa  ry 
an  noy'  an  qe 
an  tag'  6  nist 
an  tic/  i  pat  ed 
an  ti'  qui  ty 
an'  tre 

(ter) 

ap'  a  thy 
ap'  er  tures 
ap  palZ'  ing 
ap  pa  ra'  tils 
ap  pa  ri'  tion 
ap  pre  ci  a'  tion 

(sh) 

ap  pre  hen'  sion 

(sh) 

ap  pre  hen'  sive 
ap  pren'  tic,e  ship 
ap'  pro  bat  ed 
ap  pro'  pri  ate  ly 
a'  pri  cot 
a'  qui  line 
ar  cades' 
arch'  er  y 
ar'  chi  tect 
ar  chi  tec'  tur  al 
a  re'  na 


ar'  gii  ment 
ar  que  bus  iers' 
ar'  se  nal 
ar  tic'  u  late  ly 
ar'  ti  f  ic,e 
ar  til'  ler  y 
ar  til'  ler  y  man 
asp'  ens 
as  pir'  ant 
as  pi  ra'  tions 
as  sail'  ants 
as  sem'  bled 
as  sem'  bly 
as  so'  ci  at  ed 

(sh) 

as  so  91  a'  tion 
as  suaged' 

(w) 

a  stern' 
as  tound'  ing 
as  trol'  6  gers 
as  tron'  6  mer 
as  tro  nom'  ic 
a  sy'  lum 
ath  let'  ic 
at  ten'  11  at  ed 
at'  tri  butes 
slu  thor'  1  ty 
av'  a  lanche 
aV  e  niie 


a  verred' 
aye 

bach'  e  lor 
bail' if/ ^ 
bal'  dric 
bar  ba'  ri  ans 

^N  J. 

bar  bar'  ic 
bap  tis'  mal 
bar'  ra  coon 
bar'  ri  er 

bat  tal'  ion 

(y) 

bat'  ter  les 
bat'  tie  ment 
baw'  ble 
beet'  ling 
be  gwiled' 
be  lea'  gwered 
bel  lig'  er  ent 
ben  e  die'  tions 
ben  e  fac' tress 
be  nig'  nant 
be  queath' 
be  s^eg'  ers 
bev'  er  age 
big'  6t  ry 
bil'  low  y 
bi  og'  ra  phy 


-»8  420  8«- 

bis'  cuit 

cat'  a  phracts 

biv'  ouac 

cat'  a  ract 

<w) 

bless'  ed  ness 

cat'  e  ehis  ing 

bois'  ter  oils 

ca  the'  dral 

bo  re"  a'  lis 

cav  a  her'  ly 

bound'  a  ries 

cav'  i  ties 

X 

X 

boun'  te"  ous  ly 
brae 

eel'  an  dine 
ce  les'  tial 

(chf 

bra  va'  do 

ce  ment'  Sd 

breth'  ren 

9§n'  sure 

bril'  Ziant 

(sh) 

(7) 

qei  tif '  I  cate 

buoy'  an  qf 

chal'  lenged 

burgA'  er 

chal'  len  ger 

bur'  nished 

cham'pionmg 

bus'  km 

eha'  (5s 

* 

ehar'  ac  ter  Ize 

caf '  tan 

char'  I  ta  ble 

ca  lam'  1  ty 

eh  asms 

J.          X 

cal'  1  ber 

chas'  tise  ment 
j.      ^ 

can  non  ade' 

ehem'  is  try 

cap'  ti  vat  ing 

cheq'  iter 

(k) 

cap  t  iv'  1  ty 

chiv'  al  rous 

ca  reered' 

(s) 

car'  nage 

ehris'  £ened 

car'  ri  on 

-€hris  tian'  I  ty 

cas'  u  al  ty 

(zh) 

(ch) 

ehron'  i  clers 

X 

cat'  a  \6gue 

ehron'  l  cles 

ehym'  Ic 

Qir'  cuit 

Qir  ciim'  f  er  enQe 

Qir  ciim  scribed' 

Qit'  a  del 

qiv  l  li  za'  tion 

clam'  bered 

clam'  or  ous 

cler'  gf  man 

co  m  Qide' 

col'  6  nists 

col'  ter 

com'  bat  ant 

com  bi  na'  tion 

com  mand'  ers 

X 

com  menge'  ment 
com  men  da'  tion 
c8m'  mon  wealth 
com  mu'  ni  cat  ed 
com  mu'  ni  ca  tive 
com  mu'  ni  ty 
com  mut'  ed 

com  pan'  ion  ship 

(y) 

com  part'  ments 
com  pas'  sion 

(sh) 

com  pla'  ^enge 
com  plex'  ion 

(sh) 


-*8  421  8«- 


com  pet'  1  tors 
com'  pli  merit 
con  ceal'  ment 
con  gen'  tered 
con'  c&n  trat  ed 
con  cm'  sion 

(ah) 

con  cus'  sion 

(sh) 

con  demned' 

con  gen'  ial 
(yf 
con  gre  ga'  tion 

con  jec'  ture 

con'  se  quenge 

con  spir'  a  gy 

con  ster  na'  tion 

con  struc'  tion 

con'  sum  mate 

con  ta'  gion 

con  tern'  ners 

con  terrmed'     • 

con'  tern  plate 

con  tern  pla'  tion 

con  tent'  ment 

con  tri  bu'  tions 

con'  trite 

con  va  les'  Qenge 

con  voy' 

con  vul'  sion 

(sh) 


copse 
co  rol'  la 
corps 
couch'  ant 
coun'  ter  f  eit 
coun'  ter  march  nu 
cour'  te  ous 
cov'  eted 
cow'  ard  lqe 
ere  du'  li  ty 
cri  te'  ri  on 
cro'  cus 
crmV  ers 

••X  J. 

crum'  blmg 
cru  sad'  ers 
cui  rass' 

(we) 

9y  lm'  dric  al 
gym'  bals 


dam'  sels 

X         X 

de  geit'  ful  ly 
de  gep'  tion 
dec,  l  ma'  tion 
de  gl'  pher  a  ble 
dec  la  ma'  tion 
dec  6  ra'  tions 

X 

de  crep'  it 
de  f  1'  ange 


de  fi'  cien  cies 

(shf     V     A 

de  fil'  ing 
de  gen'  er  ate 
de  lib'  er  at  ed 
de  lin  e  a'  tion 
de  liv'  er  ange 
de  lti'  sion 

(zh) 

demarcation 
de  mean'  or 
dem  6  li'  tion 
de  mor'  al  Ized 
de  nom  1  na'  tion 
de  rid'  ing 
de  scrip'  tions 
de  sist'  ed 
des  6  la'  tion 
des  pot'  ic 
des'  ti  nies 

X 

de  struc'  tion 
de  ter  mi  na'  tion 
de  voured' 
dl'  a  lect 
dt  am'  e  ter 
dif  f  ti'  sion 

(zh) 

dil'  1  gent 
di  mm'  u  tive 
dis  af  fee'  tion 


-46  422  9<- 


dis  as'  trous 

X 

dis  cern'  1  ble 

(*) 
dis'  91  plme 

dis  cord'  ant 

dis  cour'  ag  ing 

dis  em  barked' 

di  shev'  eled 

dis  Ji6nf  ored 

dis  or'  dered 

dis  sem'  bled 

dis  sev'  ered 

dis  tine'  tion 

dis  tmct'  ness 

di  ver'  sion 

(8h) 

di  vi'  sions 

(zh) 

diz'  zi  ly 

dbc'  u  ments 

d6  mm'  ion 

(y) 
dram'  a  tist 

drought 

dim'  geon 

du  ra'  tion 

ed'lfiQe 
ed  1  to'  ri  als 
ed  u  ca'  tion 
8f  fac^ed' 


el'  e  gy 
el  e  ment'  al 
el'  6  quenQe 
em  bar'  rassed 
em  blem  at'  ic  al 
era  broid'  ered 
e  mer'  gen  qy 
em'  1  grate 
em'  per  ors 
em'  11  late 
en  am'  el 
en  chant'  ers 
en  chant'  ment 
en  chant'  ress 
en  com'  passed 
en  cum'  ber 
en  dow'  ment 
en  dur'  anQe 
e  nu'  mer  at  ing 
en  vel'  ftped 
ep'  1  sodes 
e  qui  noc'  tial 

(shf 

e  quip'  ment 
e'  qui  ty 
e  riip'  tion 
es  ti  ma'  tion 
e  ter'  nal 
eu  re'  ka 


e  vac'  11  at  ed 
e  van'  Ish  mg 
ex  am  1  na'  tions 
ex'  c,el  lenc,  es 
ex  else' 
ex  Qite'  ment 
ex'  ere  ment 
ex  e  cu'  tion  ers 
ex  ec'  u  tive 
ex'  em  pla  ry 
ex  empt' 
ex  er'  tions 

X  j. 

ex  hor  ta'  tion 
ex  pend'  1  ture 
ex  pe'  ri  enged 
ex  pert'  ness 
ex  ploits' 
ex  plo  ra'  tions 
ex  plo'  sion 

(zh) 

ex  press'  lve 
ex'  qui  site 
ex  tin'  guished 

(w) 

ex  traor'  di  na  ry 
ex  trav'  a  gant 
ex  trem'  1  ty 
ex  ul  ta'  tion 
ex  ult'  ed 


-*8  423  9<- 


fab'  u  lous 
f  ac'  ill  ties 
fal'  chion 
fan  tas'  tic 
fas'  91  nat  ed 
fe'  al  ty 
f  e  I19'  1  ty 
f  e  ro'  cious  ly 

(sh) 

fe  roq!  1  ty 

f  er'  ule 
00 

feuds 

X 

f  ic'  tion 
fie  ti'  tious 

(8h) 

fidel'ity 
fil'  a  ments 

filch'  es^ 

j. 

fleer 

fliic'  tu  ate 
fore'  fin  ger 
for'  eian  ers 
for  ti  fi  ca'  tions 
foun  da'  tion 
f  ran'  tic  al  ly 
f  ra  ter'  nal 
f  ren'  zied 
Mvol'ity 
frus'  trat  ed 


fun  da  men'  tal 
fi\  sil  lade' 
furze 
f  us'  tian 

(chf 

gal'  lant  ly 
gal'  lotos 
gar'  nered 
gar'  ri  sons 
gatmt'  lets 
gen'  11  me  ly 
ge  om'  e  try 
ges  tic'  11  lat  ing 
gey'  ser 
gib'  bet 
gil'  ly  flow  er 
gor'  geous 
gra  da'  tions 
grap'  pling 
grat  1  f  1  ca'  tion 
grat'  1  fy  ing 
greaves 
gren  a  dier' 
guar  an  tees' 
giule'  ful 
gumf  ea 
gy  ra'  tions 

hab  1  ta'  tion 
ha  bit'  11  al 


hal'  bert 
hal'  yards 
har'  bin  ger 
har  mo'  ni  ous 
haw'  berk 
health'  1  ly 
hedge'  toiv 
hezf  er 
her'  aid  ry 
Aerb'  age 
her'  6  me 
her'  6  ism 
hick'  6  ry 
hig'  gles 
M1P  ock 
his  tor'  ic  al 
hon'  ey  sue  A'les 
hos  pi  tal'  1  ty 
hos'  tel  ries 
howaa1]' 1 
hub'  bub 
hur'-  ri  cane 
hus  sars' 

•  X  X  X 

1'  91  cles 

id'iot" 

II  lu'  mi  nat  ed 

II  lu'  sion 

(zh) 

11  lu'  so  ry 


^g  424  s<- 

ll  lus'  trat  ed 

in  den  ta'  tion 

m  struct'  or 

im  me'  di  ate  ly 

m'  di go 

in'  stru  ment 

im'  age  ry 

in  di  vis'  1  ble 

in  teg'  ri  ty 

im  bibe' 

in'  do  lenge 

in  tel  lee'  tu  al 

im  mbr  tal'  1  ty 

m  ef '  fa  ble 

in  tern'  per  ate 

im  pearled' 

.    in  ef  fee'  tti  al 

in  ter  qede' 

im  pend'  ing 

in  ev'  1  ta  ble 

in  ter  chang'  ing 

im  per  Qep'  ti  bly 

in  ex  hsLiist'  l  ble 

in  ter  f  er'  ing 

im  pe'  ri  al 

m'  fan  try 

in  te'  ri  or 

im  per'  ti  lien^e 

in'  f I  del 

in  ter  med'  die 

im  pet'  ii  oils  ly 

^in  ge  nu'  l  ty 

in  ter  me'  di  ate 

im  plic/  it  ly 

mgSn'uoiis 

in  ter  pre  ta'  tion 

im'  po  tent 

in  hab'  it  ants 

in  ter'  pret  er 

im  prac'  ti  ca  ble 

in  Tm'  I  ta  ble 

in  ter  riip'  tion 

im  pris'  oned 

in  i'  ti  ate 

in  ter  rog'  a  to  ry 

im  prove'  ment 

(8h) 

in  ti  ma'  tions 

-L 

Tm  pru'  dent 

in  jiinc' tions 

in  trench'  ments 

in  ad  vert'  ent 

in  jii'  ri  oils 

in  trep'  id 

m  ap'  pit  ca  ble 

m  5f  fen'  sive 

in  tm'  sive 

m  can  ta'  tions 

in  quis'  i  tive  ly 

in  val'  u  a  ble 

in  clem'  en  qf 

in  san'  i  ty 

in  vent'  ive 

in  cli  na'  tion 

in  scrolled' 

in  vin'  §i  ble 

in  c5n  ven'  ien^e 

m  sep'  a  ra  ble 

in  vi  ta'  tions 

off 

m  sig'  ni  a 

in  vol'  im  ta  ry 

m  c6r'  po  rat  ed 

m  sig  nif '  l  cant 

ir  reg  u  lar'  i  ty 

in  cred'  1  ble 

m'  so  lent 

ir  rel'  e  vant 

in  cum'  bent 

in  spi  ra'  tion 

ir  re  press'  i  ble 

in  cur'  ring 

in  stalZ'  ments 

I  so  la'  tion 

m  de  fin'  a  ble 

in  stmc'  tive  ly 

i  tin'  er  ant 

jave'  1ms 
jock'  eys 
joe'  und 
jollifica'  tion 
ju'  bi  lant 
ju' bi lee 
jii'niper 

lab'  yrmth 

la'  died 

lairs 

lam  en  ta'  tion 

Ian'  yard 

lat'  1  tude 

lee'  tur  ing 

leg'  a  Qy 

li  a'  nas 

lib'  er  al  ly 

lib  er  a'  tion 

li  bra'  ri  an 

Hege 

lieu  ten'  ant 

lime'  kilns 

lm'  net 

lit'  er  a  ture 

lithe 

lu'  mi  nous 

lut'  a  nist 

lux  u'  ri  ant 


-£425  8<*- 

lyr'  ic 

ma  gV  cians 

(shf 

mag  na  mm'  i  ty 
mag  net'  ic 
mal'  a  dy 
man  i  fes  ta'  tion 
man'  i  f  est  ed 
mar'  i  time 
ma'  son  ry 
maw  so  le'  iim 
mea'  ger 
me  chan'  ic  al  ly 
me  chan'  ics 
med  l  ta'  tion 
mem'  6  ra  ble 
me  mo'  ri  als 
men'  ac,  ing 

men'  ial 

(y? 

me'  te  ors 
me  trop'  6  lis 
met'  tie  some 
mi'  cro  scope 
mi  li'  tia 

(shf 

mi  nut'  est 

mi  rac'  u  lous  ly 

mis'  sile 


mo'  men  ta  ry 

mo  men'  turn 

mon'  as  ter  y 

mort'  gage 

mor  ti  f  l  ca'  tion 

moun'  tarn  ous 

mul'  ti  ply 

mils'  cu  lar 

mu  ti  la'  tion 

myr'  mi  dons 

(«) 
mys  te'  ri  ous 

mys'  tic  al 

nat'  ii  ral  1st 
nav'  l  ga  tor 
nee'  tar  ines 
neg'  li  genge 
nev  er  the  less' 
niche 

night'  in  gale 
noi'  some 
noiir'  ish  ment 
nu'  mer  ous 
nup'  tial 

(shf 

nurs'  er  y  man 

6  be'  di  enqe 
6b  lit'  er  at  ed 


-*8  426  g<- 


ob  serv'  ang  es 
ob  serv'  a  to  ry 
ob'  sti  na  gy- 
be cu  pa'  tion 
be'  u  lar 
o'  dor  ous 
of  f  1'  ciousness 

(sh) 

om'  1  nous 
6m  nip'  6  tenge 
o'  pi  iim 
or'  an  ger  y 
or'  chis 
o  ri  en'  tal 
or'  na  ment 
or  thog'  ra  phy 
o  ver  whelmed' 

pal  l  sades' 
pal'  try 
par'  a  graph 
par'  al  lels 
par'  a  pet 
parched 
parch'  ment 
par'  don  a  ble 
pa  rish'  ion  ers 
par'  lia  ment 
par  si  mo'  ni  ous 
par'  son  age 


par  ti  al'  l  ty 

(sh) 

par'  ti  cle 

par  tic  ii  lar'  i  ties 

pas'  sion  ate 

(sh) 

pa'  tri  arch 
pa'  tri  ot  ism 
pawn'  bro  ker 
peas'  ant  ry 
pen  in'  sii  lar 
pen'  ni  less 
pen'  non  gelZe 
per  gep'  tion 
per  change' 
per'  feet  ness 
per  form' an 9  es 
pe  ri  od'  ic  als 
per'  ma  nent  ly 
per  pet'  u  al 
per  pet'  ii  ate 
per  se  ver'  ange 
per'  son  ag  es 
per  spi  cag'  i  ty 
per  suad'  ed 

(w) 

per  turbed' 
pes  ti  len'  tial 

(shf 

phi  lbs'  6  pliers 
phil  6  soph'  ic  al 


pho  tog'  ra  pliers 
phys'  ic  al  ly 
pick'  a  nin  nies 
pic  tur  esqwe' 

(k) 

pin'  ions 

(y)     x 

pin'  na  cles 
pla  card' 
plain'  tive 
plan'  tarns 
plan  ta'  tions 
poach'  er 
poised 
po  lit'  i  cal 
pol  lut'  ed 

pon'  iard 

(y? 

pop'  ii  lage 
pop  u  la'  tion 
por'  rin  ger 
pos  ses'  sions 

pos  ter'  i  ty- 
po' ten  tates 
pot'  ter 
prae'  tor 
prai'  rie 
preg'  e  dent 
pre  gip'  i  tat  ed 
pre  91  p'  i  to  us 


^427g<- 


pre  lim'  1  na  ry 

pu'ny 

rep'  ri  mand 

pre'  lude 

pup'  pets 

rep'  tile 

pre  ma  ture' 

pursu'ange 

rep  u  ta'  tion 

pre  par'  atory 

re'  qui  em 

pres  er  va'  tion 

quad'  ru  peds 

re  sent'  ment 

pre  serves' 

quar'  ter  mas  ter 

re  sist'  ange 

pri  me'  val 

res'  6  nant 

prim'  1  tive 

ram'  nier 

re  splen'  dent 

prism 

rea'  son  a  bly 

re  un'  ion 

pri  va'  tion 
proc  la  ma'  tion 

re  gess'  es 
reg'  1  pe 

(y) 
rev'  el  ry 

rev'  er  end 

prod'  1  gal 

reg  1  ta'  tion 

rev'  er  ent  ly 
rev'  er  y 

pro  fes'  sion 

(sh) 

reck'  less  ly 
rec'  om  pense 
rec'  ti  tude 

pro  f  u'  sion 

(zh) 

rev  6  Iti'  tion  a  ry 
rM  nog'  e  ros  * 
r/*ymes 
rib'  and 

pro'  gramme 
pro  ject'  lies 

re  douot'  ed 
re  dound'  mg 

prom  e  nades' 

re  ech'  oed 

rid'  i  cule 

pro  por'  tioned 
pro  pri'  e  tor 

re  f  rac'  to  ry 
re  ga'  li  a 

ri^At'  eoils  ness 

(ch) 

pro  sa'  ic 

reg  u  la'  tion 

ro  mange' 

pros  per'  1  ty 

re  li'  ant 

rood 

pros'  per  ous 

re  lm'  quisli 

ro'  se  ate 

j. 

pros  tra'  tion 

re  mem'  bran^e 

route 

pro  vo'  ca  tive 
prow'  ess 

re  mon'  strange 
re  morse'  less 

sac7  ri  flee 

(z) 

pry'mg 

rep  a  ra'  tion 

sad'  dened 

psal9  ter 

rep  re  sent'  a  tive 

sa  gag'  l  ty 

pu  is'  san^e 

rep  re  sent'  ment 

sal'  tire 

(e) 

-»8428  8<~ 


sal  va'  tion 
sap'  lings 
sat'  el  lites 
satf  ir  ists 
scaf '  folds 
scath'  less 
sehed'  ule 
schol'  ar  ship 
scrive'  ner 
scythe 
sea'  faring 
se  clu'  sion 

(zh) 

sec'  re  ta  ry 
se  lec'»tion 
sen  a  to'  ri  al 
sen  si  bil'  1  ty 
sen'  ti  ment 
sen  ti  men'  tal 
sep'  ul  cher 
se  pul'  chral 
se  ques'  tered 
shac'  Mes 
sha  green' 
shal'  lop 
sharp'  shoot  ers 
shrub'  ber  y 
sieve 
sig'  m  fled 


sim  pile/  1  ty 
si  mill  ta'  ne  oils 
sin  gu  lar'  1  ties 
si'  zar 
smiig'  glers 
so'  journ  ers 
sol'  ac,e 
sol'  em  nize 
so  lid'  1  ty 
so  111'  6  quy 
son'  nSts 
sor'  qer  y 
sow 

sov'  er  eign  ty 
spe'  cies 

spec  ta'  tors 
spher'  Ic  al 
spir  it  u  al'  i  ty 
spon  ta'  ne  oils  ly 
squad'  ron 
state'  11  est 
states-geV  er  al 
ster'  lie 
sto  lid'  i  ty 
strat'  a  gem 
stren'  u  ous 
stu  pen'  dous 
sub  6V  di  nate 


sub  or  di  na'  tion 
sub  ter  ra'  ne  an 
s\ibf  tier 
sue  ges'  sion 

(sh) 

sue  ges'  sive  ly 
suf '  f  er  ers 
sum'  ma  ry 
siim'  moned 
sump'  tu  oils  ness 
su  per  car'  go 
sti  per  flu'  1  ties 
su  pe  ri  or'  1  ty 
su  per  nat'  u  ral 
su  per  sti'  tion 
su  per  vi'  sion 

(zh) 

siip'  pie  ness 
sur'  qease 
survey' or 

(a) 

sur  viv'  or 

sus  pi'  cion 

(8h) 
syc'  6  phant 

syl'labk 

sym'  bol  Ize 

sy  rin'  ga 

sys  tern  at'  Ic 

tac'  tics 
taf/7  rail 


-£4-2 


tan'  gi  ble 
tan'  ta  lized 
tap'  es  tried 
tawt 

taw1  dry 
te'  di  oiis  ness 
tel'  e  scope 
te  mer'  1  ty 
ter'  mi  nate 
ter'  rag  es 
tes'  ta  ment 
the  6  log'  ic  al 
the'  6  ries 
thiin'  der  oils 
thwart'  ed 
tit'  u  lar 
toe'  sin 
tol'  er  a  ble 
tour'  ney 
tra  di'  tion  a  ry 
tran  seen  den'  tal 
trans  fig'  ures 
t  reach'  er  oils  ly 
trem'  u  lous  ness 
tri  an'  gu  lar  ly 
tri'  col  ored 
tri  urn'  phal 
trop'  ic  al 
trust'  wor  thy 

(u)  J 


tryst'  Tng 
twang'  Ing 

un  aid'  ed 
u  nan'  I  mous 
un  as  sum'  ing 
un  bar  ri  cade' 
un  c,e«s'  ing  ly 
tin  coiled' 
un  com'  fort  a  ble 
iin  con'  scioiis  ly 

(sh) 

iin  con  trol'  la  ble 

un  dawnt'  ed 

iin  de  qeived' 

iin  de  fend'  ed 

iin  de  filed' 

iin  dight! 

iin  du  la'  tions 
x 

iin  fa'  vor  a  ble 
iin  fledged' 
iin  flinch'  ing  ly 
iin  for'  tu  nate 
iin  fre  quent'  ed 
iin  gov'  ern  a  ble 
iin  m  ter  riipt'  ed 
ti  niqwe' 

(ek) 

u  ni  ver'  si  ty 
iin  man'  ner  ly 


iin  mis  t ak'  a  ble 
iin  ob  served' 

X 

un  or'  gan  Ized 
iin  re  lent'  mg 
iin  iit'  ter  a  ble 
iin  va'  ried 
iin  wield'  y 
iip  braid'  mg 
up  heav'  als 
u  su'  ri  oiis 

(zh) 

va'  can  ejes 
vag'  a  bond 
va'  grant 

val'  iant  ly 

(yf 

val'  or  oiis 
van'  quish  es 
va  ri'  e  ties 
vaimt'  ing  ly 
veg  e  ta'  tion 
ve'  he  ment 
ve  loc/  I  ty 
venge'ange  ' 
ven'  6m  oiis 
ver'  dur  oiis 
ver'  i  fied 

vet'  er  ans 

^  j. 

vex  a'  tion 


-»6  430  &- 


vi  bra'  tion 
vi  cjn'  1  ty 
.vi  91s'  si  tudes 


x;j 


vig'  1  Ian  qe 


vint'  age 


vir'  gin  al 
vi  tal'  1  ty 
vol  ca'  no 

wedged 
whey 

(a) 


whorls 

(ft) 

work'  man  ship 

(ft) 

wound'  ed 
wretch*  ed  ness 


Proper  Names. 


Additional  Signs  Used  in  the  Following  List. 
e  as  in  de  (Fr.).  o  (  =  e)  as  in  Gotz  (Ger.). 


1  (  =  e)  as  in  pique  (Fr.). 

(K) 

K  (  =  ch)  as  in  Rich'  tor  (Ger.). 

(N) 

N  as  in  Pe  pin'  (Fr.). 


li  as  in  Diis'  se)  dorf. 

W  (  =  v)  as  in  Wil'  helm  (Ger.). 


A'  bra  ham 

Abyssin' 1  a 

Ae'  sop 

Ag'  as  s'iz 

A'  jax 

Al'  cott 

AY  \kh 

Am'  bree 

An'dreas  Fut'teral 

An'  to  ny 

A  paec/  1  des 

A  pol'  16 

Ar'  ba  ces 


Ar  ma'  da 
Ar'  ra  gon 
As'  €ham 
Augus  t'f  nii 

(ow) 

Au  ro'  ra  Le/V/A 

A  vi'  gnoN 

(ny) 

Ayr 

A  zoirs' 
Az'  tec" 

Bab'  y  Ion 
Bal  es  tier' 


Bar'  ne  velt 

Bas  sa'  ni  6 

Bas  tiW 

Bel  shaz'  zar 

Ber  nar  din  de  St. 

Pierre   ^jft**" 

Bis'  marck 
x 

Bo  he'  mi  a 
Boh'  ca  wen 
Bue'  na  Vis'  ta 

(wa) 

Bul'  wer  Lyt'  ton 
Bur'  gun  dy 
Btisch'  ing 


-*8431  8<- 


Caen 

(k8N) 

Cae'  sar 
Ca  le'  nus 
Cam'  e  lot 
Ciir  lyle' 
Ca'  sa  GuV  d'i 

(w) 

CaV  sius 

(«h) 

Cas  til'  la 

(y) 
Ca  vi  te' 

(a) 

Chal  de'  ans 
Cha  pul'  te  pec 

(a)     (a)      • 

Char  ney' 

(s)  (a) 

CheZms'  ford 
Cher'bourg 

(B) 

Chris'  to  pher 
Cm'  tra 
Clan  ruadh' 

(roy) 

Cle  6  pa'  tra 
Cole'  ridge 
Corme'  my 
Cor  re  gi  dor' 

(a)(h)  (til) 

Count  de  Bu'  ren 

Dal  ness' 
Da  mas'  cus 


D'i  6  da'  ti 
Di  o£r'  e  nes 
Do  min'  go 
Don   An  to'  nio 


(y) 


de  Ul  16'  a 

(a)  "   (y) 
Don  Juan'  de 


(liw) 


(ft) 


Aus'  tria 

(ow)         (y) 

DSnQuix'6te(/%.) 
Du  es'  sa 
Diis'  sel  dorf 

Eb  en  e'  zer 
f]  gyp'  tian 

(shf 

En'tepiu/J 
Faust 

(ou) 

Fe'lix  Gras 

(a) 

Fi  dele' 

(a) 

Gal'  ax  y 
Gal  lie' 6 
Ga'  za 

GazeW 
Ges'  ler 
GUot'  to 


Glaw.'  cus 
Glen'  coe 
Glen  ere'  ran 
Goll'ath 

Gott'  fried 

(t) 

Got'  ting  en 

Gotz  von  Ber'  li ch- 
ef) (K) 

ingen 
Gnes'  chen 

Hague 
Ha'  vre 
He'  brew 

Hel'  seg  gen 
Her  nan'  do 

(a) 

Pi  zar'  ro 
Ho  ra'  tius 

(sh) 

Is'  la  de  Cu'  ba 

(a) 

Ja  mat'  ca  Plain 
Jo'  hann  Wolf  gang 

(y) 

von  Goe'  tAe 
(f) 

Knoivles 


-»8  432  9«- 


Labrador' 
La  Ca  pi  tame' 
La  hore' 
Lan'  ce  15t 
Leip'  sic 
Les  Mi  se  rabies' 

(a)  ""(a) 

Ley'  den 

Li  ge'  ia 

(y) 
Lor  rame' 

Low  vaiN7 

Luck'  now 

Lu  do  vi'  co 

Lu  ne'  ta 

(a) 

Lux  em  bowra' 

(ON) 

Ma  caw'  lay 
Mag  da  len 

(Mad'  ltn) 

CSl'lege 
Ma  nil'  a 
Ma  roon' 
Mar'  quis  de 

LaN  te  nac' 

Mar  sei  llsiis' 

(ft)  (y) 
Ma  zep'  pa 

Mi'ehael  An'gelo 

(a) 

Mi'  das 


Migwel'deCer- 

(a) 

van'  tes 
Mil'  an 
Min  da  na'  o 
Mo  ham'  med 
Mon'  mouth 
Mont  cafrn' 
M6n£  chg  vreu'  'il 

(8)  (§) 

Mont'  mo  ren  91 

Mon  to'  io 
(i) 
Mo  r<5c'  co 

M6V  koe-strom. 

Naz'  a  rene 
Neb  u  chad  nez'  zar 
Neer'  win  den 
Nin'  e  veA 
N6r'  foZk 
NSr  we'  gmn 
No'  tre  Dame 

0  lym'  pi  a 
Othel'16 

Pal'  es  tine 
Pal'  mas 
Pa  ri'  siarl 

(zhf 


Par  nas'  sus 
Perre  not1 
Pet'  rel 
Pzed  mon  tese' 
Phi  1!  bert'  de 

A 

Brii  xelles' 

Phi  lis' ti  a 
Pic  cio'  la 

(t)(ch) 

Pla'  to 
Pom  pe'  ii 

(a)(y) 

Por'tia 

(8h) 

Portil'lo 
(y) 
Por'  tu  gwese 

Pot'ipha/ 
Pri  ewr'  de  la  Marne 
Pro  me'  theus 
Pro  ven  c,al' 

(5H) 

Ra'  leigh 

Ras'  se  las 

Reg'  1  nald  He'  ber 

Rei'  na  Cris  ti'  na 

(ft) 

Rene' 

A     (a) 

Rep'  pli  er 
Reyn'  olds 


-*g  433  &- 


Rich'  e  lien 
Rich'  ter 

(K) 

Ross'  bach 

(K) 


SaiN  fine' 

Sales'  bur  y 

Sam'  son  Ag  on  is'- 

tes 
San'  €ho  Pan'  za 
Sar'  a  Qen 
Sar  a  gos'  sa 
Sar'  tor  Re  sar'  tus 
Saxe-Wei'  mar 
Se'  poy 


Shalot*' 
Soc'  ra  tes 
Sphinx 
Stoke  Po'  ges 
Su'big 

Ta'  nis 

Telesile' 

(a)  (a)X 

TelZ  march' 
The'  6  dore 
Tho'  reau 

(ro) 

Tro'  jan 
Tils'  ca  ny 
Tyre 
Tyr'  ol 


U'  kraine 
Ve  las'  co 

(a) 

Ven  de'  an 
Ve  sti'  vi  iis 
Vis'  count  de 

A 

Fon'  te  nay 

Wer'  thef 
West'  mm  ster 
Wetz'  lar 

Wil'  helm  Meis'  ter 
Win'  der  mere 

Words'  worth 

(ft)    x     (ft) 
Wye 


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